


Lethologica

by Lifeinahole



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, chef killian, confused friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 75,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifeinahole/pseuds/Lifeinahole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe if they could find the right word to describe their friendship, everything else would fall into place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_(noun) the inability to remember a word or put your finger on the right word_

“Now, like, can you explain what you’re doing?” the brochure reporter asks, her voice high-pitched and grating on his nerves. It’s just past the dinner rush, so the kitchen is down to its normal buzz of activity instead of the frenzy that occurred a mere hour ago. Stations are getting cleaned up and restocked, food prep is happening all around the kitchen, and Killian, even though he’s technically done working, is doing a demonstration of knife skills to the ditzy woman standing beside him.

He grits his teeth while keeping a smile on his face, putting on a charming air as he explains the difference between julienne and batonnet cuts.

“Wow! You’re like, really good at that Kevin,” the young woman gushes.

His sigh is internalized. It’s not like they wear nametags in the kitchen. He isn’t quite sure how she got ‘Kevin’ from ‘Killian’ but he’s not going to correct her.

“Thanks, love. It’s all about practice,” he says, deftly continuing his cuts. The owners of the country club were insistent that the interview be done, and by being the Executive Chef, Killian was in charge of making sure the restaurant at this overpriced haven for people with too much money sounds as good as the food tastes. It’s the one day a week he doesn’t close the place down, and yet he’s still stuck here as this vapid woman makes some comment about how Julianne is her favorite name, and if she had the choice to change her name, that’s what she would change it to. He chuckles politely, but his mouth gets the better of him.

“I would change mine to _Killian_ , since Kevin is just so dreary.”

“Oh my _god_. What an exotic sounding name!”

Somewhere to his left, his sous chef, Will, chokes down a laugh and snorts, and Killian has to bite the inside of his cheek.

“Right. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Well, we could talk about it some more over some drinks if you’d like.” She reaches out and touches his forearm, exposed from the way his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. In the past, these kinds of interviews have gotten him dates. This time –

His phone chirps a few times, the bird call sounding sweet and innocent, and very unlike the person the ringtone is intended for. He was only mildly disappointed that an exhaustive search yielded no swan calls. He almost sighs in relief as he pulls out the phone, reading the text message quickly and hiding his grin with an apologetic look. Saved by his savior, even when she’s the one in need of saving this time.

“I’m afraid I can’t. Friend in need.” He types out a quick response and hits send before motioning to whoever is closest, a quiet chef that he recently hired to join the team. “Can you take over here, please? This should last the night and anything else can get stored for lunch tomorrow.” His request is met with a steady _“Yes, Chef”_ as the lad moves in to take over, and Killian slaps the boy on the shoulder with an approving nod. He turns back to the reporter and tries to plaster on the sincerest look he can. “I do apologize, lass. I hope you’ve got what you need for the article. It was a pleasure meeting you. If you have any more questions, please feel free to ask any of the other members of my staff. The men and women that work in this kitchen are all highly trained professionals that have a deep appreciation for their craft.”

By the way her eyes light up and she begins scribbling furiously, he knows she’s taken the bait for the quote and he gives her a brilliant smile when she looks back up at him. He’s able to extricate himself from his position near the salad station soon after and drops into the cooler to grab a couple containers he filled earlier. While he intended them to be his lunch for a couple days, they will be much better appreciated where he’s heading next.

As he’s climbing into his car, chirrups sound out again and Killian quickly checks the message.

_Swan:_ _Take your time. I’ll be on my couch dying._

“So melodramatic,” he mutters and starts his car. He has two stops to make before he’ll reach his ailing friend, and surely she won’t be dead by the time he reaches her.

He stops at the pharmacy first, trying his best to not run through the aisles to find specific items, before hastening back home to shower and change. The shower is short, so even after he dries off, he can still smell the faintest hint of the kitchen clinging to his skin. Luckily, his companion won’t be able to tell, so he grabs his phone and his keys and heads back out the door. Five minutes later, he’s parking behind the familiar apartment building of Emma Swan and letting himself in with the keys she gave him years ago.

Killian peers over the back of her couch, only to find Emma nested amongst what must be five blankets. He’s not quite sure where blankets end and she begins. With only the television lighting the room, everything is cast in a weird blueish-white tint. He carefully sets a canvas bag down on the end table closest to him as he moves around the couch, keeping hold on the small bag from the pharmacy.

“You look ridiculous,” he tells her as she tilts her head to try to see around him.

“ _You_ look ridiculous,” she responds, burrowing further into the blankets she has piled up around her. The couch appears to be swallowing her whole. Her nose is red, her eyes puffy, her face pallid, and she’s sulking.  He resists stealing her signature move of eye rolling.

“I brought your disgusting medicine.” He holds up the requested item, knowing the protest is on the tail end of his statement.

“I don’t want to take medicine,” she whines, and he has to inhale deeply. The air fills his lungs and he counts to five slowly before releasing it through a thin aperture between his lips. He remembers how much of a pain in the arse she can be when she’s ill, and he’s thankful that this is only the third time he’s had to attend to her as such.

“You told me when you texted me that I was to make sure you took the medicine, Swan. Don’t fight me on this.” He stares at the pouting face that blinks out from the fort she’s built around her. “Swan.”

“I know! Fine! _Geez,_ lay off already,” she snaps. This time, he’s pressing his lips together in an attempt at not laughing, because he does not wish bodily harm upon himself right now. He’s brought back to the issue at hand when she coughs, the force of which rattles her whole body as she extricates herself far enough from the couch to sit up. “Gimme,” she croaks out when the coughing subsides.

Killian sits on the edge of a cushion and pulls the bottle of green liquid from the pharmacy bag. He breaks the safety seal and pours a measure out for her, handing it over when he’s sure it’s the correct amount. She’s grimacing the whole time, the furrow between her brows the obvious tell of her displeasure if it weren’t for the sullen look of a child settling across her lips.

“Bottoms up,” Emma grumbles mockingly, upending the little cup into her mouth and swallowing. She makes a loud sound of disgust as she hands it back to him. He moves to the kitchen, grabbing the second bag on his way before rinsing out the portion cup and placing it back over the lid.

He busies himself with the other bag he brought with him, storing the homemade soup and tea in their appropriate places before he wanders back to the living room to ask if she needs anything else. He rounds the corner, opening his mouth to question, but then promptly shuts it. Emma is already asleep again, the blankets abandoned around her waist. He scrubs his hand over his face once before moving closer and covering her back up.

Snagging the remote from the end table, Killian settles into the blue arm chair he knows so well and absently flips through the channels, keeping an ever-vigilant eye on his sleeping companion.  Sometimes he tries to remember how this all began, but finds the whole thing hazy in his memory. What he does know is that it took a ridiculously short amount of time for Emma Swan and Killian Jones to go from strangers in a grocery store to best friends.

_Four years earlier…_

It’s been six years that Killian has been living in Storybrooke, hired as the executive chef of the Crystal Springs Country Club (which the proprietor of the space insists sounds much more appealing than just calling it the Storybrooke Country Club) after he graduated culinary school. As such, he knows damn near every face that lived in the town in the off season. The tourist season is about to start anew, and Killian has spent the day interviewing one of three candidates for the sous chef position in his kitchen in preparation for the onslaught of customers they’ll get over the next few months.

This one was a gamble, a brand new chef with no formal training – a brand new chef that _would not_ be working in his kitchen, thank you very much. The interview went exceedingly well, however, the tasting sample had not. It had taken an hour for him to realize what exactly was wrong, when the burbles of his stomach had become too loud to ignore, but then he had taken all necessary measures to get home as soon as possible, with a quick stop at the grocery store first before making his way home.

A peek at Killian’s basket reveals ginger ale, Tums, actual ginger, plain rice, and he’s dragging his feet in the direction of the aisle that holds toilet paper so he can finally return to his apartment and die in peace. Judging by the picked-over appearance of the shelves, he surmises that they’re getting a shipment in the morning. He only prays that the last item on his list is still in supply. He cannot afford to drive one town over for this item.

The package, tipped over on the floor next to what appears to be a soda explosion, is just a few feet away from him when a blonde woman appears at the other end of the aisle. Not a local, so he would normally be intrigued, except she’s eyeballing the toilet paper and shifting to look at him, only to start rushing her cart over to where it sits.

“Wait, wait!” Killian calls out as soon as he realizes her intentions, “I need that!” He hurries his steps as much as he can and reaches to rip the package away from her grasp.

“I need it, too!” she fires back, brows furrowing and hands tightening on the only thing he cannot leave without. “I just moved in, and they have one roll of sandpaper that came with the place, complimentary. I _need_ it.”

“My heart aches for you, really lass, but I ran out this morning. I have _none_.”

“I’m on my period!” she blurts out, protectively clutching the package to her chest. She probably expects him to recoil, back away, apologize, whatever it is that most men do when the topic of menstruation comes up. But he has one better. “You’re a guy. You can make it without for a night. Just use tissues or something.”

Killian heaves a huge sigh, unwilling to expose his reasons but seeing no other option. He is usually a gentleman, first and foremost, but this is one time he cannot be. She _did_ admit she has a roll at home, after all.

“Split it with me,” he proposes. Trying to hold off explaining one last time.

“What?”

“Just take half the rolls, I’ll take the other half. We both walk away happy.”

“One of these is damaged,” she explains, turning the package to show where it has, in fact, been resting in soda. “So it’ll be uneven. What then?”

“You can have the extra roll,” he insists.

“I have never seen a dude fight so hard for toilet paper before.”

He sighs again, groaning softly. “The young man I interviewed for a chef’s position today did not properly clean his utensils. He did not get the job, and I’ve had to switch out shifts with someone tomorrow for sick leave.” He explains it in a rush, hoping she just takes pity on him already.

She tilts her head to consider him, taking in his whole demeanor and facial expressions, his posture. Whatever she is looking for, she finds it. “You just trumped my period card with diarrhea. I’m impressed.” She loosens her death-grip on the toilet paper.

Killian considers just snatching it and running for half a second before common sense kicks in. He wouldn’t make it two steps without embarrassing himself, and he has already done enough damage for one meeting.

“Lass, I don’t want to hurry you, but this is a time sensitive decision. I will buy the whole lot, just give me at least one roll out of it and we’ll call it a day.”

He watches as she bites her lip, trying to hold back laughter. He knows. This is one of those situations that will be hilarious one day. But today is not going to be that day.

Finally, _finally_ , she nods her head in the direction of the checkout and starts heading that way.

He upholds his half of the bargain, paying for the whole package and graciously accepting the two rolls she hands him after she finishes bagging her items. They part ways without even exchanging names, and Killian is just fine with that. He has little desire for her to know who he is, especially after having to use his digestive ailments as leverage to barter toilet paper from her.

But of course, small towns mean that the chances of running into her again are fairly good.

There she is at the park just two days later, jogging his usual path towards him as he’s halfway through his run, and in the first lights of dawn, he realizes she’s radiant. She catches sight of him before he can even think of changing course to avoid her, and the smile that lights up her face has him groaning.

“Nice to see you looking healthier, chef. Keeping hydrated?”

“Ha bloody ha. But please, my friends call me Killian,” he responds, holding out a hand to her.

“Is that what we are now? Friends?”

“We’re already privy to some intimate details, love. Might as well call ourselves friends and get it over with,” he adds.

“I was lying about my condition that night. So really, you’re the only one that gave away anything, _Killian_.”

The hand that was held out to shake hers comes up to scrub over his face. The groan that comes out is long suffering, but still impressed that she was willing to go through such extraordinary lengths to get the product in question.

She snorts out a laugh and holds out her hand. “Emma Swan,” she says, the smile lighting her face genuine and friendly. “I just moved here. I wasn’t lying about that. It’s nice to meet someone other than Granny. Not that she isn’t great! Just, yeah.”

Killian takes her hand, ending her rambling but not the smile. “Nice to meet you, Swan.”

She smiles wider at his use of her last name. “Likewise. You know, your willingness to admit your weakness the other night was impressive. You might be – “

“Suave?” The interjection causes her to furrow her eyebrows, but there’s humor dancing in her eyes.

“No, more like – “

“A dashing rapscallion?” He makes sure to wiggle his eyebrows as he says it.

“Uh, not quite. More like – “

“A handsome scoundrel?” Killian takes extreme pleasure watching her face battle it out between irritation and holding back laughter.

“I was going to say ‘decent guy’ but I think I’ll amend that to jackass. You seem like a jackass, but I’m okay with that. See you around.”

With that, she edges around him on the path and jogs off, leaving him with one last remark.

“Hope that toilet paper’s treating you well!”

Killian’s head drops back, an explosive sigh coming from him, as he knows from that point on, Emma Swan is going to be an interesting addition to his life.

_Present Day_

One thing was for absolute certain, Killian was correct on that assumption. Since that day, and all the subsequent times he ran into Emma in those early days, his life has not been boring. He would discover her comfort at the use of her last name, as a member of the Army Reserves and the newest deputy at the Storybrooke sheriff’s department. She would find out that he was more accustomed to calling his chefs by last name as he worked beside them. They just fit.

While she was not there to tend for him during that particular instance, they have been there for each other for every other bump and bruise, every sniffle, sneeze, or otherwise.

It’s still dark when Killian wakes up, the sound of Emma’s coughs echoing around the small living room and rousing him to care for his friend. He stands up and stretches his limbs, sore from falling asleep in the armchair, especially since he didn’t even recline the damn thing and just curled into a ball. Feeling a little more limber, he makes his way to the kitchen to measure out more of the liquid he knows from experience tastes like utter shite and leaves it on the counter in order to fetch Emma. The coughing subsided, she has burrowed back under all the blankets.

“You know how this works,” he says sleepily. “You get soup and tea if you promise not to put up a fight when you’re done eating.” His voice is quiet and patient as he gently nudges the arm that’s poking out of the blankets. One bleary eye cracks open and he knows she’s scowling at him.

“You look like a pirate,” he says cheekily, and she glares harder.

“I hate you so much right now I can taste it,” comes the muffled response.

“You were able to string together a full sentence of hatred. Come on. Sit up and I’ll go heat up your favorite.”

A noise comes from under there somewhere, and he grins. He knows the vegetable soup from his own recipe is her weakness. It’s the carefully perfected spices and homemade broth that make the simple concoction what it is. Otherwise, it’s the tail-end of vegetables left over from the prep on any given day he makes it.

“Yes, I brought the veggie mess. But you have to sit up and remain awake while I heat it up. Think you can manage?”

There’s another noise, something that sounds a lot like a growl but also sounds like another derogatory remark, but then she’s shoving the covers down and pushing herself into a sitting position.

“There’s a good lass,” he says, knowing full well she doesn’t have the energy to hit him and her face shows it. Instead, she very deliberately lifts her middle finger. She sits there like that, blinking slowly and clearly trying to shake the sleep for a bit.

“I’ll take that as a suggestion if you keep it up much longer, Swan,” he tells her as he rises from the couch and heads off to the kitchen to re-heat some of the soup before she can react. He can hear the thump of her feet on the floor as she sluggishly drags herself after him and props against the doorway of the kitchen.

“You may be a jerk, but you’re a lifesaver,” she says. He can hear the gravel in her voice, and moves to find her kettle. Once it’s filled, he lights a burner and places it on to heat. As that’s going, he grabs a container out of the fridge and empties it into a saucepan, lighting another burner and setting that to simmer.

Killian is almost as familiar with Emma’s kitchen as he is with the one he uses at the country club. He doesn’t include his own kitchen because it has an electric stove and he barely uses the damn thing if he can avoid it. Instead, he finds inventive ways to use the oven, a separate griddle, his beloved grill, and a slow cooker (which Emma is always fond of). He’s aware of her staring from the doorway, and he wants nothing more to tell her to just go sit down and he’ll bring it to her when it’s ready. He knows her better than that, though, knows better than to even try. She would probably just stand closer and breathe down his neck in defiance, and while he loves her, he is not prepared to deal with such tomfoolery tonight.

Instead, he carefully checks the temperature of the soup and pulls the kettle when it starts to whistle. It’s all like a dance to him, much like it is when he’s in the kitchen at work, much like it’s always been to him with any kitchen he was ever in. He has vague memories of the terrors of culinary school. The voices of his instructors still ring in his ears, even now, when all he’s doing is reheating something he made with nary a thought while he was prepping for the lunch rush this morning.

He forgets about Emma standing at the door to the kitchen, focusing on his movements as he pulls out a bowl and spoon. He grabs her favorite mug and drops the steeper filled with her favorite tea blend into it and pours the steaming water over it. Then he’s back to the stovetop to tend the soup, stirring so nothing settles and sticks to the pan, tapping the spoon on the edge to shake the last drops of broth free. Delicate movements, not too hurried, not too wide, but not at a snail’s pace.

When he turns again, Emma is staring with her jaw slightly dropped.

“You make it look like fucking art,” she blurts out, and he can’t help but chuckle. Killian is used to hearing this from her, because every time he cooks for her (soup and tea not excluded, apparently) she says much the same.

“It’s just reheating and tea, darling,” he responds. He was never very good at taking compliments from her. The bowl is warm, but not scalding, so he places it in his upturned hand, balancing the spoon between his fingers and placing a couple cracker packets on his wrist. Before grabbing the mug of tea, he removes the steeper and places it in the sink, prepared to clean it when he comes back to do the dishes. He nods at her to move back to the living room as he grabs the handle of the mug, letting her lead the way back to her makeshift sick bed.

Once Emma is situated with her food, he heads back to the kitchen to clean up. It’s just like cleaning his work kitchen, the dance continuing as he puts away the rest of the soup, taps the used tea blend into the bin beneath the sink, carefully cleans each item he used, and then wipes down the entire counter before he’s satisfied. He knows he’ll still have dishes to tend to once Emma is finished eating, but a clean kitchen is a happy kitchen in his mind, so for now he’s as happy as he can be with his best friend miserable in the next room.

He checks on her after he surveys his work, deeming the inspection complete before turning off all the lights except the one above the stove. She’s still sipping at the tea, so he brings the medicine in to get it out of the way before she finishes the chaser. He watches as her eyes begin to droop closed longer and longer with each sip. When she places the mug down on the coffee table, he knows the medicine is winning out over her desire to stay upright, and so he helps her get settled again, all whilst listening to her whine and moan about her nose being too clogged on one side, or her ears needing to pop in that scratchy voice that sounds like she’s been a pack-a-day smoker for twenty years, but it still somehow turns him on.

Nipping that thought off, he collects the dirty dishes from her dinner and heads to the kitchen to clean them. He fishes around the pantry for the vinyl gloves he keeps there before heading back in to the living room. Tissues and other scraps of trash are collected from the tables around her, disposed of before he grabs the anti-bacterial spray from the bathroom. Every surface gets wiped down before he moves on and does the same to the kitchen counters.

It's not that he has an unbreakable immune system, it’s just that by the time Emma calls him, she’s too far into the illness to be contagious anymore. It works out well for him. When he gets his yearly cold in two months, she’ll be there taking care of him and the cycle will continue.

He’s just about sanitized her whole apartment before he puts all the supplies away and washes his hands. Emma is snoring, her head tilted back on the pillow and mouth gaping open and a pang of affection goes so sharply through him that he almost can’t stand it.

The bond between them is complicated at times, because there’s obviously love. And sometimes it’s platonic love and name-calling, and other times their eyes linger a little too long. Sometimes his hand stays on the small of her back when they’re out. Sometimes she links her arm through his when they’re walking and lets her fingers play in the space on the inside of his elbow. Sometimes, she talks in her sleep and he knows he’s not alone in these feelings. But neither of them want to move beyond what they have, especially because if it ended, neither would be okay losing the other. He has this in mind, even as he urges her to sit up in her sleep. She complies, because she knows the soothing sound of his whispers even when she’s unaware of everything else.

Killian manages to maneuver her to a position that will make it easier for her to breathe. He’s content when her snore is just a mild thing, much less irritating to her already agitated throat.

He settles back into the recliner and channel surfs until he finds a movie, knowing he won’t make it through half of the damn thing before he falls asleep, as well. Before he forgets, Killian grabs his phone from the end table and texts David, Emma’s fellow sheriff and their resident father-figure. Killian only needs to say that Emma is sick before David assures him he’ll take care of it, more than likely accessing the tree-like system of workers at the department to find coverage for her shifts. It takes a handful of minutes before David gets back to him and confirms the time off.

Realizing he’s supposed to close at the country club the next night, he also sends a text to Will and calls in the payback of a favor. Will still owes him for the last time Killian had to spring him from the drunk tank. The response is griping, but affirmative. This is just a perk of calling the shots in the kitchen.

With his phone placed off to the side, Killian curls up in the recliner and manages to keep his eyes open for ten whole minutes before he’s out like a light, Emma’s softer snores and the hushed television acting as the sweetest form of lullaby.


	2. Chapter 2

_Three and a half years earlier…_

“We should just bang one out.” The comment is unprompted. Emma just decides to say it during a commercial break because she can. It may have something to do with the ridiculous amount of NyQuil in her bloodstream, or the fact that she took it two hours ago and she’s still somehow awake.

“Pardon?” To say that Killian doesn’t look like he was expecting this particular conversation would be a bit of an understatement. His eyes are wide and quite a bit shocked, and pink is creeping up the tips of his ears in the most endearing way possible.

“You heard me. Bang one out and get it over with. You’re hot. I’m pretty sure you think I’m hot. We can just have sex once and get it out of our systems and be bffs for-fuckin’-ever.” Sound logic, if you ask her. Killian hadn’t asked her, but she’s giving her opinion on the matter anyways.

“And what pretext are you using for me thinking you’re hot?”

“Probably the way you stare at my ass whenever I walk out of a room. I’m a cop. I notice things,” she says while looking over her shoulder as she stumbles toward the kitchen. “Case in point,” she adds when his eyes are trained to a spot below the waistband on her favorite sweatpants. She leaves him there in the living room, slumped in what he now refers to as “his” recliner, while she tries to figure out how she’ll stand long enough to make herself a cup of tea.

It's as she’s reaching for her favorite mug, the ceramic feeling heavy to her weakened arms and hands, that she realizes he followed. With ease, he grabs the mug from her and gently maneuvers her out of the way.

“Bloody stubborn woman, let me help at least?”

She doesn’t answer, just crosses her arms over her chest and tries not to pout.

“Anyway, why bang one out, as you’ve so eloquently put it? Why not date? We’ve proven that we’re compatible eating together, watching movies, long drives around the area. Having sex would just prove our dynamic in the bedroom,” he points out.

“Because if we date, we’ll probably break up. And you’re too cool for me to lose because of something dumb like putting a label on it.” Her voice drops considerably as she adds, “Lost too many for that dumb reason, anyway,” which he either doesn’t hear her say, or pretends that he didn’t. Past relationships are touchy subjects for both of them.

It’s clear that calling him cool has fed into his ego, though, because she can see him preening as he places the kettle on her stove. They’re quiet, save for Killian’s soft humming as he waits for the kettle to whistle. He’s rummaging through the jar with tea packets in it while Emma chews her bottom lip in thought. She’s brought back to the moment when Killian hands over a steaming mug, the first sip of which is scalding but immediately calming on her sore throat.

She watches in fascination as Killian methodically moves across every inch of her kitchen, cleaning up the items he moved around first before wiping down the counters. She thinks about protesting when he starts washing the dishes she’d failed to get done earlier in the day, but the tea seems to be soothing her to the point where she’s not sure she could even make a convincing argument.

Of course, she doesn’t have time to do so; he’s done before she can even think of what she’d say. He finishes stacking the clean dishes in the strainer and turns to check her progress on the tea. To both their surprise, the mug is empty and cooling in her hands, and he plucks it from her grip to give it the same treatment as the other dishes before turning on her again.

“How’re you feeling, Swan?”

“You never answered me,” she says in lieu of an answer. Her mouth feels funny when she talks, though. Like her lips are made of rubber that no longer wants to cooperate.

His hands come up briefly, scrubbing across his face before he rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s getting longer than it was when they first met, and the urge to bury her fingers in it hits once every thirty minutes. Not that she’s keeping track or anything.

“Swan – Emma. Here’s the thing. I’ve done the whole friends with benefits thing. It ended with the girl defacing my car while I was at work and earned me the title ‘Chef Douchebag’ for longer than I care to remember.”

“I’m not her,” Emma protests weakly.

“You certainly are not,” he comments immediately. She watches as a few different emotions pass over his face; there’s disgust at the situation from his past, a solemn expression befalling him next, and then he lands on mischief. He looks back at her when that one has settled across his features, and Emma’s curiosity is getting the better of her.

“What?”

Instead of an immediate answer, he moves closer to her, and if Emma was asked to describe the way he comes toward her, she would have to call it predatory, because there’s no other way to explain how Killian is stalking across the kitchen to where she’s propped against the counter. Their unstated personal bubbles nudge together, until he’s standing toe to toe with her, his hands sliding along her waist and pulling her against him.

Automatically, her hands brace on his chest as his breath brushes the shell of her ear.

“Like this, Emma? Is this what you want right now? Shall I take you to your bed and show you how well I work with my hands? Shall I add the taste of you to the delicacies I’ve had on my lips?” His tongue darts out and flicks her earlobe, and she can’t help the whine that comes out. “Would you want me to ravish you in every way I know how until you’re panting and breathless, until you decide you’d rather not leave the bed for a few days when you can feel your legs again once I’ve fucked you senseless?”

Her body is flush against his at this point, and her hips rock forward involuntarily at the notion, and all at once her legs give out.

“I’ve got you,” Killian tells her, his voice immediately soothing instead of teasing, and he does. With ease, he picks her up and carries her back to the cocoon she’s been making on the couch all day. “I gave you the sleepy tea blend. You need to rest. Maybe when you’re not delirious we’ll come back to your suggestion, aye?”

She blinks sleepily in acknowledgement, feeling the way her whole body finally starts relaxing into the couch cushions. Killian smiles at her, kisses her forehead, and tucks her in before returning to his chair. She’s just drifting off when she realizes that his body had been reacting as much as hers had during that moment in the kitchen, and she makes note to ask him about it again later.

_Present Day_

Emma’s eyes open slowly, the obvious disuse making it a difficult process. The sun is too bright, her eyes too grainy, and her mouth distinctly tastes like something died in it overnight. She’s not altogether surprised that she’s in her bed, as Killian has a habit of corralling her to the more logical sleeping location rather than letting her camp out on the couch. She wonders if he stayed, or if he went home after he got her to bed. Vaguely, she remembers that he was slated to work the next day, and most of the weekend, so she figures it’s safe to assume he went home.

It takes a considerable amount of effort to get out from underneath her covers, and once she’s free, she takes a couple extra minutes to stretch. It feels like she’s been sleeping for days, and her muscles are sore from being in what she’s sure was a very attractive prone position on both the couch and her bed. She needs a shower, as well, but that can wait until she’s had a couple strong cups of coffee and a hot meal.

All other traces of the cold seem to be behind her. She’s breathing easily and smoothly, there’s no lingering congestion, and other than some soreness in the muscles she probably strained while coughing, there doesn’t seem to be anything left. _Bless Killian and the veggie mess_ , she thinks as she wanders from her bedroom.

To her utter surprise, Killian is asleep on the couch, his favorite blanket covering him except where his socked feet and bare ankles stick out at the bottom. With exasperated fondness, she wanders over to look down at him, his features completely relaxed and the stress of the country club not sitting between his eyebrows like it normally does. Normally she can fight the instincts she has to reach out and touch him, but in the early light of this day, she doesn’t fight it, instead letting her fingers brush the hair off his forehead in a gentle caress.

“So happy to see you upright, love, but you might want to put on some bottoms if we’re going to be moving around the same space for at least an hour.”

His ability to tell she’s not wearing sleep pants is slightly absurd, especially because she failed to notice on her own. She _tsks_ and wanders back to her bedroom to remedy the situation and listens to the sounds of Killian rolling off the couch and immediately heading in to putter around in her kitchen. She should feel guilty over him catering to her, but she can also hear him humming as he works and she knows – has been told on numerous occasions – that he actually enjoys doing this. How she got so lucky, she’ll never really figure out.

She has one leg in a pair of well-worn flannel pajama bottoms when the memory hits her of that first cold he walked in on, how they’d been friends for barely six months when the flu knocked her on her ass right before what was slowly becoming a weekly movie night. The way his voice sounded on the couch just then is reminiscent to the way it sounded in her ear that night, the semi-hardness of him pressing against her center as he teased her. It was all a diversionary tactic, meant to get her weak in the knees so she would finally go to sleep, but she thinks of those gravelly spoken promises even after years of friendship and nothing more.

Harmless flirting is one thing. Pretending to be each other’s significant other to brush off creepers at the bar is another. Jumping into bed and doing the number of things, by this point countless, that she’s had dreams of doing to him would blow everything else out of the water.

But what if…?

With a firm shake of her head, she finishes sliding the pajamas up her legs, settling the waistband on her hips before she stalks back out of her bedroom with a clearer mind.

Killian is still cooking away at the stove. She wonders when he left to get groceries because she knows she didn’t have half of the ingredients she sees in the pan when he got there after his shift. She worked through most of the contents of her fridge and pantry before sending out her pathetic call for help. Except for the first illness, where he all but waltzed in as the symptoms started showing themselves, she’s always waited for the point of no return to text him. It’s not anything against him personally, it’s just the way she’s always operated. She’s not some fragile damsel in distress; she’s been to Iraq. The only one who saves Emma Swan is Emma Swan.

But, as it turns out most often, the only one who _feeds_ Emma Swan is Killian Jones. Her stomach lets out a loud rumble when the smell of bacon hits her, and she realizes that she’s completely famished.

“Oh god, it feels like I haven’t eaten in days. Is there any veggie mess left over?”

“Swan, you feel like you haven’t eaten in days because you’ve been out cold for two days. Did you not look at your phone when you woke up?”

“What are you talking about?” Her phone is still plugged in next to her alarm clock. “Who the hell checks the date when they wake up? But seriously, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve no idea what kind of people you’re hanging out with, but you picked up some monstrosity of a flu virus, love. You’ve barely even been conscious since Wednesday night when I got here.”

“And today is?”

“Saturday,” he answers, all of this without ever glancing in her direction. He has to be fucking with her.

She finally retrieves her phone, expecting Thursday’s date to flash up to greet her and maybe a message or two. Saturday. Ten missed calls, thirty e-mails, seventeen text messages. _Dear lord._

She’s in the midst of checking all of the various notifications, and a certain sense of calm satisfaction comes over her as she clears each little red bubble. While she’s caught up in that, Killian guides her over to the table where he’s already set her food and a cup of coffee. She blindly grabs her fork and starts digging in, only pausing once the first bite is in her mouth. Then her eyes slide shut, the flavors sliding across her tongue, and the phone gets forgotten on the table next to her mug. She opens her eyes again as she goes for another bite and sees Killian’s smug look staring back at her.

“Good?”

“Shut it, Jones. You know it’s good,” she says around a mouthful of perfect omelet. “So, my job?”

“Secured, in the hands of the ever-capable David Nolan. He filed your sick days and got all your shifts covered through Monday just to be safe.”

“Thanks, dad,” Emma mutters, sing-song and extremely grateful.

“I told him you’d call him when you were up and about.”

“I’ll call him later. Please tell me you haven’t been here the whole time?”

Killian chuckles, finishing off the last of the food on his plate and swallowing before answering. “Of course not, love. Will doesn’t owe me that many favors. Mary Margaret has been here a couple times to check on you.” He pauses, tilting his head and looking at her through narrowed eyes. “She told me she had a very interesting conversation with you about her likeness to Snow White, and that the men that go into Granny’s after their shift in the mine are all her dwarves. Do you have anything to say for yourself about this matter, Swan?”

The next bite of food goes down the wrong way, and Emma has to spend a minute hacking to clear her throat and try to speak. _Fucking sleep talking_ , she thinks as she accepts the glass of water Killian holds out to her. _Over-prepared bastard_ , is her next thought.

“Anyway, I open the kitchen tomorrow, but I have the rest of the day off. I was thinking we should – “

“Be fuck buddies?” She doesn’t mean to say it. The words just sort of pop out before she has a chance to catch them.

“Wow,” he drawls, “I want you to remember that this is the second time it’s been you to bring this up. I was going to suggest we binge-watch whatever your Netflix queue is overloaded with since you’re a workaholic. But you went there, Swan. That’s all you.”

“I’m just gonna go back to bed and pretend I never woke up.”

“We’ll just table the rest of that topic until further notice. Go shower, I’ll clean up the kitchen, and I’ll meet you in the living room in twenty?”

“Deal.”

-x-

To her immense relief, he doesn’t bring it up when she comes back in to the living room that day. In fact, he doesn’t bring it up again. Instead, they’re saddled with a strange tension sitting in the periphery in the quiet spaces of their time together.

Two weeks later, she’s surprised when her phone wakes her out of a dead sleep. She’s sure that she put on the ‘do not disturb’ setting before going to bed, which means Killian’s called her multiple times to get it to ring. A very drunk Killian and a thirty-second conversation later, Emma is throwing a sweater over her tank and sliding into boots.

She pulls up to their frequent bar, a place she has spent many a night she doesn’t fully remember surrounded by Killian and the group of misfits they’ve spent years collecting, and climbs out of the car in order to fetch the man in question and whatever other of the ‘boys’ require a ride home.

“ _Em-_ ma!” If she weren’t already aware of his state of inebriation, it’s the way he says her name that gives it away. The first syllable is higher pitched and short, while the second is drawn out, as if her name has more than four letters. The second giveaway is the smell of alcohol rolling heavily from his entire being. She’s pretty sure if auras are things, and if they get drunk too, then his is the amber of the rum he’s probably consumed and she’s surprised the whites of his eyes aren’t the same color.

She bites her bottom lip against a smile, because it’s 1:30am and she had finally been asleep after what felt like the longest day of work ever before getting his phone call(s), his words slurred, his accent thicker than normal as he explained that there was a need for a sober driver if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. She would never admit that for him, it was always trouble, but not of the inconvenienced kind. She reminds herself that she’s to be playing the role of put-out friend and attempts to school her face into something sterner.

“Come on, Stumbles. Let’s get you guys home.” She grabs his wrist as she says this, hoping the rest of Boys’ Night follows, because she’s not even bothering to turn around and look. She tugs him along through the bar where some twenty-something brunette has taken it upon herself to croon out “Don’t Cry Out Loud” to the ten people remaining. Off key, of course.

Despite the fact that Emma is walking a straight line, she can feel the wobble, and she looks back to see Killian staring at his feet as he moves, and David holding his other hand, with Robin behind him and Will bringing up the end of their improvised snake. They all slither in a line behind her, back and forth, and she chokes down another laugh at the sight as she leads them out of the bar. She heaves out a sigh of relief when she sees the cab waiting outside the bar, thankful that she’s not the one that has to cart all of them home. It’s even more of a surprise when David breaks their little chain and heads straight for the taxi with the other two.

“This is us,” he claims triumphantly, herding Will and Robin into the backseat. He turns back to Emma and Killian still standing just beyond the door. “Emma. Thank you for rescuing us from osta- the untri- from obstracles course. Drive safely. We love you.”

Without another word, he clambers into the front seat of the cab, waving enthusiastically through the window as he attempts to buckle himself in. As the cab pulls away from the curb, Emma becomes all too aware that she’s no longer holding Killian’s wrist, but that he’s taken it upon himself to link his fingers between hers, their palms pressed together in a comfortable grip. The butterflies in her stomach make a steep swoop down to her feet when his thumb brushes along hers in a gentle rhythm that he seems to be entirely unaware of. She runs the fingers of her free hand over her forehead and into her hair before once more pulling him along, this time in the direction of her car.

“They made me sing karaoke,” he whines once they’ve settled into her car. He’s fruitlessly attempting to buckle himself in, and can’t seem to hit the mark no matter how hard he tries. After his third miss, she takes pity on him and grabs the belt and quickly secures it.

“They didn’t make you do shit,” she says as she fastens her own seat belt. “No one loves the attention of an audience more than you, so don’t try to sell me that crap.” She’s smiling when she says it, the words carrying no malice at all, but he still drops his head in shame.

“You are correct, my lovely Swan.”

She can’t fight the blush that creeps into her cheeks at the endearment. _Fucking rum._

He mostly settles in for the rest of the drive, but when he realizes she’s driving in the direction of his own apartment, he balks, insisting instead that he needs to stay on her couch due to its “Magical Hangover Curing Abilities,” which is utter bullshit, but she doubles back to go to her place instead. Getting him up the flight of stairs that leads to her quaint, second-story apartment is a hellish nightmare.

She spends a full minute dragging him away from the pile of shoes outside one of the ground-floor apartments. They belong to a young couple that has recently moved in and made her weekends a living nightmare, but as the older and wiser upstairs neighbor, she needs to not pull pranks on them. Which is exactly what she tells Killian in an angry whisper to stop him from pissing on the whole pile. Instead, she lets him knock over one pair of dirty work boots before she drags him up the staircase.

He ends up standing behind her as she shuffles her keys, trying to find the one for the deadbolt first, and she startles when his head drops to her shoulder. His hands find purchase on her hips and she can feel him inching closer in the scant amount of space that’s left between them. They’re demonstrably affectionate at times, yes, but this isn’t for the sake of warding off unwanted attention at a bar, and it’s not a simple cuddle on the couch. This is Killian lifting his head just enough to run his nose along the exposed part of her neck, just above the collar of her coat. This is his hands tightening their grip right below her ticklish spots.

“Swan?”

Her heart is hammering in her chest, a quick reminder that it’s been a long time since she’s gotten out to scratch that itch, and that she’s proposed _twice_ now that she and her very attractive friend sleep together, even if one of those times was several years ago.

“Yeah, sorry. Getting there, hang on.” As quickly as she can manage, she unlocks the deadbolt, unlocks the main door lock, and twists the knob to let them into her apartment.

Killian almost falls forward at the sudden shift, stumbling into the dark entrance just behind her. She shuts and re-locks everything behind him, keeping an eye on her less-than-steady friend as he toes off his shoes on the mat by the door. He rests heavily against the door for a moment when he finally succeeds, and she moves around efficiently while he catches his bearings, leaving her own boots on the mat, hanging up her keys, her coat, her purse, and stuffing her beanie into the basket designated for such things in the space below where her keys hang.

He's still leaning there when she turns back to him, and Emma raises an eyebrow. The entire event is curious, but so many of his current behaviors are unlike his usual ones. Either he’s much drunker than he originally appeared to be, or there’s something going on below the surface that he hasn’t clued her in on yet. Instead of waiting for his next move, she moves forward and pulls him away from the door. As he unsteadily moves toward the couch, she grabs his leather jacket. He rolls his shoulders just enough that it slides down easily, and she moves away again to hang it up next to her own. When she turns this time, he’s collapsed onto the couch, mostly face down, with one arm hanging off the side. His legs are barely on the damn thing, either, and she tilts her head in curiosity before going to fetch his blanket.

“Do you really mean it, Swan?” he asks when she returns.

“Mean what, Jones? I haven’t said anything since I called you an attention whore. In which case, yes, I am a firm believer in that.” She rests the blanket on the arm of the couch as she moves around to urge his legs up. With some effort, he pulls them up and rolls to his side to regard her.

“Bang one out,” he quotes from long ago. The words still sound strange coming from him, and knowing him as well as she does now, she thinks he’d probably have some overly elegant way of putting it. _A tryst_ , her memory supplies, having heard him say it once when he was describing how he and his former girlfriend, Tink, got together in the first place.

_‘Was nothing but a tryst at first,’_ he’d told her one night, a pint of ice cream between them at the breakfast bar in his apartment.

Which sort of (not really) brings her back to the situation at hand. She carefully settles onto the side of the couch, resting against his abdomen as she tries to figure out what she even wants to say. He keeps his hands to himself, curling them beneath his cheek and closing one eye to keep her in focus.

She snorts out a laugh, unable to even think about having this conversation with him while he’s as intoxicated as he is.

“Go to sleep, Captain Hook. We’ll delay this conversation again, until a time when we aren’t sick or drunk or sleep deprived or trying to win pirate lookalike contests.”

He digs his left hand out and crooks his index finger, letting out one faint ‘ _aargh’_ before he lets his other eye close. She stands and grabs the blanket, unfolding it and draping it over him. When she’s done, she leans over to kiss him on the cheek but he shifts, and suddenly she’s kissing him. It’s barely a press of their lips while she makes a surprised _‘mm’_ in the back of her throat, and then she’s straightening. Killian’s eyes are still closed, a peaceful little smile on his lips even as she recognizes the signs of him succumbing to the alcohol in his system.

She licks her lips and tries to ignore the fact that every nerve in her body is now full-forced singing as she heads to her room and firmly shuts the door. If it weren’t for the lingering taste of rum, she could pretend it never even happened. She still could, if she wants to. The problem, which is startlingly clear as she thinks of his lips soft against hers, is that she doesn’t want to.


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Don’t_ ,” Killian admonishes gently. “Not that one, love. Try this one first. That’s the control group.” Emma’s hand hovers over the second batch of hors d’oeuvres that Killian has just finished plating, but after a moment where he thinks she’s going to defy him and grab one of the variations he’s testing out, she grabs for the original plate that’s closer to her.

It’s after-hours at the country club and Emma is standing in the kitchen with him as he preps from hand-scrawled notes, the pages of his notebook covered in various spots from cooking debris. The new menu is due for tasting to the owner next week and this is the last round of test batches Killian intends on making. He has turned to his most trusted taste-tester, as Emma happily demanded ages ago that she be his guinea pig for anything and everything he makes.

He grabs for a control sample after she’s already taken a bite of one, barely sparing a moment to think about it as he pops the whole thing in his mouth. He hears Emma make a happy little noise, and he smiles as he chews, pleased that she seems to be enjoying the small creation. When he turns his head to look at her to ask a question, though, she’s staring at his mouth and her tongue peeks out to swipe at her lips; he has no idea if she even realizes she’s doing so, either.

After what feels like an hour of her staring, Killian clears his throat, catching her attention once more.

“Yeah, sorry, what?” She blushes as she stammers, and Killian laughs quietly as he goes back to putting on the last touches. “So what am I eating?”

“ _That_ is just a spaghetti squash cake. That’s the base I’m working with. These,” he emphasizes as he carefully spoons sour cream onto one, “are the variations I need to decide on for the menu. This’ll be one of the new appetizers.”

With everything finally cooked, he makes sure the burners are all turned off, placing the hot pan off to the side to be dealt with when they’re finished. He urges her to sip at her water before he points out the next one.

“This is the same base, except it has sour cream and chives on top. There’s a sprinkle of fresh tarragon on there, as well.”

Following along, Emma daintily picks up the sample with her thumb and middle finger and eats this one a little slower than the previous one. There’s a dab of sour cream still on her middle finger when she’s done, and Killian watches with rapt attention as she licks the pad of her finger before popping the whole digit into her mouth and sucking it clean. It could be minutes that he goes without blinking, or hours, for all he knows.

As the flavors mix together and she notices the nuances he’s added in, she closes her eyes and moans softly, finger still in her mouth, and Killian is dangerously close to doing something, _anything_ to relieve the tension that has coiled up so tightly inside of him that he’s surprised he’s not vibrating from the pressure.

“Swan,” he croaks, immediately catching her attention. Her eyes fly open and she looks at him apologetically, slowly pulling her finger from between her lips and swallowing harshly.

“Sorry,” comes her husky murmur, but he’s not sure either of them are sorry at all. She’s back to staring at his lips, and a part of him worries about how much longer their resolve will hold out, how much longer until one of them cracks and just dry-humps the other into next Tuesday. He’s both terrified and elated.

The morning after he got rip-roaring drunk with the boys, he woke up on her couch feeling like some monumental shift had occurred between them. He remembers pressing against her in the doorway, and being the one to ask about a possible situation that would lead to the more enjoyable activities he likes to partake in whilst on his back, but she told him they would talk about it later and covered him up. He thinks she kissed him on the cheek, but shortly after the Captain Hook joke he was damn near gone, so that’s a little fuzzy still.

He woke up feeling that shift, with Emma staring at his mouth, while he tangoed with the mother of all hangovers. Apparently whatever magical healing properties he thought her couch beheld, he was quite mistaken.

They’ve lapsed into silence again, having a stare-down without even looking in each other’s eyes, just staring at each other’s lips, and Killian is beginning to think their friendship, in whatever way the term can be defined, may officially be the most bizarre thing in existence.

“Bloody hell, love. You’re making it extremely difficult to be a gentleman right now,” he finally says, and it snaps them both out of it just the tiniest bit. She snorts inelegantly, rolling her eyes even as a pretty little blush tints her cheeks.

“Yeah, that’s the word that comes to mind. Since when are you a gentleman, Jones?”

“I’m _always_ a gentleman, Swan. Or did you forget that time I split the last package of toilet tissue with you because you claimed it was your womanly time of the month?”

“And you fell for that, hook, line, and sinker.”

“You’re the worst, Swan. Now try the next sample. It’s almost identical, with dill instead of the tarragon.” He once again holds the glass of water up to her, and she sips before grabbing the next sample.

Killian grabs his own and tosses the whole thing in his mouth. He’s tasted all of this before in some capacity, so he doesn’t need to be as scrupulous as he’s expecting her to be. Instead, he leaves her to gather her thoughts about the very slight differences in herbs and begins his clean up. The kitchen was already scrubbed down nearly ceiling to floor with the end of the work shift, so it’s less than he might normally have to clean up.

Still, there’s enough for him to do. The pans he used need scrubbing, there are dirtied mixing bowls and cutting boards and knives. The spoons and plates and... And he sighs, knowing that he’s still going to end up cleaning most of the kitchen before he leaves here tonight.

For a half hour, he directs Emma’s sampling in between batches of cleaning, and he doesn’t join her at the island counter until all that remains are the plates that the last samples reside on. He leans up against the counter as she reaches for another cake with a garlic aioli drizzled over top.

“How long’s it been, Swan?”

“Hmm?” She’s scribbling something down next to his notes, her mouth still full, and he should really know better than to try opening this can of worms right now.

“You know,” he says as casually as possible, his hand gesturing out in front of him as if she’ll magically know what he’s trying to say from hand-movement alone. “How long has it been?” Amazingly, she does figure it out.

“Oh! Um, Kilt Guy at Halloween.”

“But that was the last Halloween, not this past one, wasn’t it?”

She pointedly concentrates on whatever it is she’s writing on the page while she tries and fails to nod as nonchalantly as possible. A year and a half is a long stretch for her, from what he can tell. Not that she parades partners in and out of her bedroom, just that she always operated on the same principles that he did: sometimes, you just need that release, and there’s no shame in doing so without the hassle of strings or labels.

When they’d met, Killian was still having to reprimand his chefs when they called back “Yes, Chef Douchebag” after Tink had bestowed the name upon him before her swift exit from working as his Sous chef. Not only did it firmly place his rules about sleeping with other members of his kitchen staff, it also cemented his desire to stay as far away from relationships as possible. No one was ever going to be Milah, his first and lost love, so what was the point anyway?

And Emma. Well, poor Emma Swan, as he would find out later, had just had her heart smashed prior to moving to Storybrooke. It’s what had facilitated the move, with a little help from David contacting her regarding the job in the sheriff’s department. From there it was easy enough to just keep driving down to Boston for drill weekends while living up in Storybrooke. An hour and a half was just far enough, as she would eventually tell him. Just far enough away that she was okay with driving there, and didn’t have to see the person that had broken her heart.

“Well, it’s not like there haven’t been opportunities, right? Drill weekends and all that?”

“That ship sailed when I made a vow to stop sleeping with any fellow soldiers,” she replies quickly.

He’s just taken a bite of another one of the options, this one with goat cheese and capers. One bite and he winces, plucking off the remaining capers and laughing as he sees Emma doing the same.

“It was a good thought,” she tells him, taking a healthy sip of the water still by her hand.

With the last bite, Emma closes her eyes again and makes a contented noise. “That one is my favorite. But you know goat cheese is my biggest weakness.”

“That I do. I’ll keep it in mind.” With the samples finished, he’s able to finish the last of the cleanup easily while Emma wanders around the kitchen. She enjoys seeing the pots and pans gleaming, and the knives all lined up on their magnetic strips. It’s something she’s mentioned before when he first brought her here, and it’s something he’s noticed each and every time she’s been here.

“So, what movies tonight?”

“Movie. Singular. I have to wake up and be productive tomorrow, since I have drill this weekend.”

“ _Ah_ , I forgot that was coming up. That means I’m all on my own this weekend, doomed to a life of boredom and work.” He ushers her up the stairs that lead to the main floor of the country club, shutting off the lights in the kitchen as he goes.

“Drama queen. You have other friends, you know. Call David. Just remember that I won’t be there to save you when you need a sober driver,” she says with a lift of one eyebrow as she looks over her shoulder at him. He’s trying his hardest not to stare at her rear end, which she pegged correctly all those years ago as one of his favorite assets of hers.

He edges out in front of her and pushes open the door, feeling the cool gust of April air rush over his skin when he does.  “Of course, but if I get drunk, none of them will put me up on their couch and tuck me in with my favorite blanket.” She huffs out a laugh and passes by him. She stands nearby while Killian resets the alarm and locks the door behind himself, pulling it a couple times to ensure it locked properly.

“Yeah, and I’m sure you won’t kiss any of them, either.” She mutters it under her breath, perhaps not intentionally loud enough for him to hear, but he hears it anyway.

“What’s this about a kiss, then?” he asks as he whirls around to look at her. For once, he catches her staring at _his_ behind and he lets the slow grin spread across his face, especially when she looks at him and realizes she’s been caught.

“Oh, so you don’t remember that part of the night? You remember everything else but not the part where I went to kiss you on the cheek and you turned into it?”

“Obviously, I remember no such thing, but I’m sure it was an accident.” He notices that her face falls a little when he says this, so he hurries to continue. “Swan, if I’m going to kiss you, I’d damn well make sure we’d both remember it in the face of all other kisses we ever experience.” He’s walking backwards toward his car as he says this and stops short when she rolls her eyes.

She stops when he does, just a few feet away, close enough to reach out and touch but far enough away that he can’t feel the comforting heat of her body. “Please,” she says, crossing her arms and looking for all the world like she’s readying for battle. “You couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it,” he says, his eyebrow shooting up suggestively as he leans in closer, almost against his own volition. His blood is surging through his veins as his heart beats wildly, and it’s only with intense concentration that it hasn’t all pooled below the belt. In his uniform, erections are disastrous and unavoidably noticeable.

There’s heat dancing in her eyes, and he knows it’s reflected in his own. The big question is whether they’ll light the match now or keep the fire burning low yet again. Honestly, if he’d meant to kiss her, he would’ve damn well made sure he was awake for it. Other than chaste New Year’s Eve ordeals, he’s wondered what it would feel like to kiss Emma without restraint.

Emma’s the one to break their staring contest, making a noise of aggravation in the back of her throat before she spins on her heel and stomps toward her car.

“I want hot cocoa when we get to your place, asshole.”

Low burner, it is then. “As you wish, Swan,” he responds absent-mindedly, turning to his own vehicle and following her out of the parking lot.

-x-

Especially during menu re-works, Killian realizes that he has hired and cultivated the perfect staff for his kitchen. They’re seamlessly working around him while Killian bends over the one square of counter to be spared. The pages of his notebook are almost unrecognizable as he scribbles and scratches out, covered in notes and arrows, blots and stains. He’s almost done choosing the taste samples for the owner and the financier.

_Ugh_ , just thinking about that meeting makes his skin crawl. Not for meeting with the owner. Well, one of them. The other owner, the Mysterious Mr. Gold, is a primarily silent partner who stays out of his kitchen. It’s a good thing. Killian isn’t entirely sure the old kook isn’t just a crocodile in fine threads and sheep’s clothing. Mostly, he just owns the land that the club is built on, and instead of full-out buying the property from him, Regina made him part owner. Thankfully, he has too many other properties and businesses to attend to, and spends little time at this one.

Surprisingly, Killian gets along with the other one in their own strange way. Regina is a tough lass, a woman who he reckons could give the evil queen a run for her money when she’s angry, but is more interested in harmless banter any other time. They have a rapport that works well for owner and executive chef. Regina is the one that sought him out for his reputation via a recommendation from one of his teachers at culinary school. And thus he moved his life to Storybrooke.

The one that Killian has absolutely no desire to see is Mr. Hades (pronounced “hah- _day,_ ” as he will remind anyone who even thinks of trying to pronounce it as the god of the underworld), the arrogant financier that has been the backer for the country club as long as it’s been around. It took a long time for Killian to understand Regina’s partnership with the haughty man, who he has honest-to-god seen wearing a cape and spats, but the vague backstory sounds a lot like running, which is something Killian knows all too well about.

Once, he was running from the emotional pain after Milah passed away, which led him to culinary school and almost immediately to the club. Nearly ten years later, he’s thankful he landed here, even if he’s still not keen on the events that led him to this point. Too much lost, too much heart break.

“Chef Jones, do you have a status report for me?” Regina’s commanding voice breaks him from what could’ve been a terrible train of thought. If it were any other encounter, he would expect a comment about the amount of sweat running down his temple, about his disheveled appearance today, but she gets straight to business.

With one last word in his notebook, he looks up to see her striding across the bustling kitchen with purpose. His chefs all move around her without a single missed step, and he feels the pride surging through him at the sight. “Just about all set, your highness.”

She ignores the title, instead glancing around at the kitchen staff all hard at work.

“Where’s your pastry chef?”

“Called off. Again. The only malfunctioning screw in an otherwise smooth-running machine.”

“Do you think it’s time to send her packing?”

“We’ll give her one more shot. Other than an unfortunate penchant to call off, she hasn’t suggested putting children into pies or anything, and the guests like her whimsy.” At Regina’s skeptical look, Killian sighs heavily. “If you find a better candidate, I will happily interview them and test them out.”

“That’s something for another day. First comes the spring menu. Ready to cook for Hades?” She, of course, pronounces it wrong.

“Oh, as I’ll ever be. _Not_ looking forward to his sarcastic comments and condescending tone.”

“The new uniforms are in, so you’ll at least look good while he acts like an idiot.”

Killian grins at that, and again when she says she’ll leave the order in the office upstairs so he can grab it before he leaves. He’ll dole out the new uniform coats over the next few shifts while they change around the linens upstairs to be the classier ones for tourist season. While it’s still over a month away, the sooner they get into practice with all of it, the better.

-x-

He spends the next two days ironing out the last details of what he’ll make for the meeting, sending and receiving texts with Emma that mostly consist of them nagging each other to eat food and sleep properly. He assures her that he’ll have dinner ready for her when she gets back, and the continuation of their movie night rescheduled for Sunday evening.

Somewhere in the middle of the day Sunday, she goes quiet, and he knows it’s just because they’re finishing up everything that they need to do for the next month, so he lets it go and turns his attentions to his kitchen. The restaurant portion of the country club has just closed down when he gets her text message, the whole seven characters telling enough about her state of mind as she finishes up.

_Swan: ETA 1930_

It gives him plenty of time to supervise kitchen cleanup as he makes his final notes. When all that can be done for menu prep is complete, Killian finally clocks out. The kitchen is spotless, everything prepped for lunch service the next day, and he happily shuts off the lights and locks the doors behind him. Soon enough, the bar and golf course will be open later than his restaurant is, so this will be a superfluous step in his routine.

He’s just pulling into his apartment complex’s parking lot when he sees that Emma’s bright yellow Bug is behind him. She pulls into the spot beside his and parks, only hauling a single rucksack out of the front seat despite the fact that he can see even more gear in the backseat. No doubt, she’s only concerned about her shower necessities and a change of clothes, probably even pajamas if she’s angling to stay in the spare room (might as well just be hers with how often she stays in it) for the night.

“The rest can wait ‘til I get home,” she confirms, following as he unlocks the door to the lobby. Normally, she’s ahead of him on the stairs, racing to see who can get to the lock first, but tonight she’s dragging, and if the can of Red Bull in her hand is any indication, she’s fighting exhaustion tooth and nail.

“Hungry?” he asks, because while he’s not had to drive an hour and a half to get back home, he has put in the work of a full day. This may be one of the few times they’re on equal feet of exhaustion.

The results can go two ways: they’ll fall asleep ten minutes after eating, possibly right where they’re seated on his couch, or they’ll go into that loopy state of being that comes from being entirely too tired.

“Starving. I forgot to eat lunch,” she tells him as they round the landing and head for the last set of stairs. Living on the fourth floor is only occasionally a pain in the arse; this is one of those times.

As they reach the top, he can tell the exact moment she catches a whiff of the food that’s been cooking and simmering away all day. She slows even further, rounding the handrail and seemingly following her nose the rest of the way down the hallway, speeding up until she passes him. She has the door unlocked and is standing over the crockpot when he finally gets inside and closes the door again.

“Food or shower first?” he calls out, knowing she’ll hear him from her position hovering over the damn lid just _inhaling_. Sure enough, when he gets to the kitchen, that’s exactly what she’s doing. Her hat is the only thing she’s removed, as a force of habit he knows.

“Food. Fuck the shower, I just want to eat and not move for a while.”

“As you wish, Swan. Go sit down. Get your boots off, at the very least.”

They splurge and use the table most nights they share a meal, but tonight is one of the rare times they’ll go straight to the foldout tables to park in front of the television.

While Emma sets up the tables and settles herself in, Killian pulls out plates to accommodate the pot roast that’s been cooking all day. He spoons out all of the vegetables first, making sure there’s a generous helping of the carrots, potatoes, and green beans on each plate before setting the rest aside to be refrigerated. He grabs napkins and cutlery on the way, dropping off the plates before returning to the kitchen to grab them beers out of the fridge.

Killian’s not the least bit surprised that the vegetables are half gone from Emma’s plate when he gets back. He spots no less than two hairpins on the floor, and sees a set of blousers on one of the end tables. Her uniform coat is hanging up on the hooks by the door, and her boots are lined up beneath it. Even her socks are off and balled up, sitting next to her rucksack. Down to just her uniform pants and a tan, army-issued t-shirt, she already looks more relaxed than when she first pulled in.

“Good weekend?” she asks after swallowing another mouthful of food.

“Aye,” he answers, enjoying watching her eat for a moment before turning back to his own food. He spears a carrot before elaborating. “Regina stopped in to see me on Friday. We’re all prepped up for the meeting with the ruler of the underworld.”

“Good. It’ll be fine. Just don’t let him get under your skin this time.”

Instead of responding, Killian just hums and keeps on eating. It may be a running issue, but he will ignore his wrong-doing in the last meeting to the very ends of the earth, or the end of time.

When their plates are all but licked clean, Killian takes them back to the kitchen, with Emma following closely behind and chattering to him about her weekend. He’s met a few of the other soldiers in her unit before, but mostly knows them by last names and vague descriptions. Still, he enjoys hearing about anything she can share, laughing over the antics they seem to get into. He knows Booth to be the dependable type, and Fa to be the stern NCO that keeps them all in line when it’s time to get to work, but still has that touch of a soft spot, especially when it comes to talking to those she’s closest with about her girlfriend, Ruby.

He can list off all the last names of the people Emma enjoys hanging out with, who causes the drama, who doesn’t do what they’re told, who annoys her beyond reason, and on and on. He may not understand everything there is to know, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

They make it half way through the movie they intended on watching before they realize they haven’t watched a minute of it. Instead, they’ve been busy catching each other up on the events they’ve missed out on, even though it’s only been three days since they last saw one another. Both of them are sunk into the corners of his couch, Emma’s bare feet braced on his thigh. He can feel how chilly her toes are through the thin fabric of his uniform pants, and gets slightly distracted by the pink polish on her toes. Her fingernails must remain bare during these weekends, so she keeps her toes colorful enough to make up for it.

“Oh!” Killian sits up suddenly, the thought of uniforms reminding him of the new jacket sitting in his bedroom. “We got our new uniform coats in on Friday!” He springs off the couch to go grab the new one, as it won’t premier until the spring menu does, outside of the meeting with Hades this week.

The coats are a thing of pride to him, as Regina has let him choose exactly what he and all his chefs wear. Most of his chefs wear either the plain black on weekdays or white for special occasions, with black pants. Will gets an upgraded coat with gray detailing as the second in command. Killian’s coat remains the same whether it’s a special event or not. The black coat is pristine, unlike the rest of the coats he has around, now. Most have stains or rips or slight scorches, but this one is still crisp. A deep red accents the short sleeves and collar, and the tear-away knots match. He already can’t wait to start destroying it, as he’s enjoyed with every chef’s coat he’s ever owned. Thankfully, he has three of this one and they’ll hopefully last through the summer.

It feels a little stiff when he slides it on, not having been washed yet, but it’s still soft and definitely welcome compared to the one he spent all day sweating in.

He re-enters the living room with his arms splayed to show the details. Emma’s expression goes from relaxed and smiling to something else when her eyes focus on him. There’s hunger riding behind her eyes, and it has nothing to do with the full plate of food they each just consumed. It has everything to do with what they’ve been carefully side-stepping for weeks recently, but more realistically for years now.

Casually, he moves toward the couch, bending forward to grab her hands and urge her off the couch. It would be terribly easy to pull her the rest of the way, to taste her lips right then and there, but he wants Emma to start this. He _wants,_ but this has to be as much Emma’s choice as it is his.

But a little nudge never hurt, so he waits until she’s on her feet in front of him before he guides her hands to the tail of each side of the coat and smiling. “Give her a tug then, love,” he requests.

She’s seen him rip off a uniform coat enough times to know what he’s asking, this feature being one of his favorites in a vast majority of the coats he’s worn over the years. So it’s with little effort that she replicates the motion, the coat opening in one swift tug. He’s grinning, one eyebrow up, because it’s truly just an enjoyable thing to rip open a chef’s coat, but also because Emma’s eyes have gone wide and she’s biting her lip so hard he’s afraid she’ll break skin if she doesn’t stop soon.

Her hands are still on the coat, and she uses them to tug him forward, slow enough that he knows exactly where this is going but hard enough that they almost go tumbling back onto the couch before her lips connect with his in a hard kiss. This time, there’s no doubting that this is a kiss, and with that in mind, Killian gives it his all. His hands splay across either side of her neck, his thumbs tracing her jaw.

She’s clutching his jacket so tight that he already knows it’ll be wrinkled when this is all over with, but he doesn’t care. He especially doesn’t when she tilts her head, her mouth opening up against his and her tongue meeting his, a gentle sweep across the back of his front teeth following, which has him moaning into her. He kisses across her cheek and down her neck, knowing there’s a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear that he’s longed to explore. She presses even closer when his tongue slides across that spot and he’d be content to spend several hours finding out which spots she likes best. The sensation must get to be too much, because she lets go of his jacket for just a moment to bring his lips even with hers again.

With a nip of finality, she pulls back, but not far. Her forehead rests against his as they both breathe heavily and Killian prays the hummingbird beat of his heart slows down soon. He’s sure she must feel the effect it’s all had on him, more than obvious in his chef’s pants, but she’s also all but riding his thigh where it’s resting between her legs. They’re equally wanton in this respect.

“Not with alcohol in our systems,” she tells him, and he nods in agreement. The reason behind her stopping it from going further surprises him a little bit, and they’re not drunk in any particular definition, but it’s an echo of the night he stayed at her place. No alcohol, or illnesses, or sleep deprivation, or addled minds getting in the way. His hands trail away from her jaw as hers release the fabric of his coat, and he runs his down the length of her arms until he reaches her hands. He takes each of her hands in his and brings them to his mouth, kissing the knuckles on each one in turn.

It’s all he can really do when he wants to respect their friendship but he also wants to peel off the beige t-shirt and be the reason the rest of the hairpins fall out of her carefully constructed bun. He wants to see what she wears beneath the incredibly drab pants. He wants _her,_ especially when her head drops back down and she’s nosing along his collarbone, pressing up against him in just the right way, and they need to _stop_ and head to their respective sleeping quarters, or else he’s going to end up taking her right on the couch.

With one steadying breath, he finally steps back completely, immediately missing the feeling of her skin. He scratches behind his ear nervously, not entirely sure how to navigate from this spot back to their regular repertoire. Thankfully, Emma seems to have cleared a bit of the fog from her mind, enough to reach down and grab her ruck and rolled up socks.

“You want to clean up for bed first, or am I good to go?”

“I have to take a quick shower before bed,” Killian tells her. She smirks when he says it, her eyes sliding obscenely down his body for a moment before coming back up to meet his. “ _Not_ for any other reason than I spent all day in a very hot kitchen and would like to remove the final scent of it all before climbing into bed.”

“Well, then. I’ll try to be quick. Maybe tomorrow we can head down to that kitchen supply shop you’ve been wanting to raid?” She’s moving around him, heading straight for the bathroom with her stuff.

“We can always try, love,” comes his delayed response, right before the door clicks shut and he’s finally sure that his brain has enough blood to function.

-x-

Whenever she stays at his place, there’s always a mess of hair pins the day after, as if they simply exploded from her head the night before and landed on the coffee table or scattered to the floor. He always dutifully picks them up and places them in a jar in the bathroom until the next round comes in. He’s constantly in awe of the seemingly endless supply of the little buggers, because she never runs out. She stays over, there are hair pins everywhere, the sky is blue. These are the truths of his life.

But that just means when she wakes up and stumbles out of his guest room that her hair is down, the complicated braids or twists or buns, depending on the occasion, from the night before leaving her hair in various patterns. Waves or curls, it’s all an artful mess of blonde that falls past her shoulders as she grumbles a morning greeting and reaches for the coffee he holds out to her.

She catches sight of herself in the microwave and Killian has to stifle the knee-jerk reaction of a chuckle due to the expression on her face.

“Not a word,” comes her sharp reprimand as she struggles to tie it back with an elastic from her wrist. She wakes up grumpy, he teases her, the grass is green. Just more truths of his life.

It’s as she succeeds in winding it up in a makeshift bun that he notices he left a mark just behind her ear, just along that spot that tasted like heaven and Emma and like the line between friendship and bed partners. Whether she just senses it or whatever it is that leads her to do so, she reaches up to rub at the spot, hissing when she feels the sensitive bruising he’s left behind. She whirls on him so fast that all he can do is press himself against the wall and pray for a swift death at her mercy.

“For future reference, you need to mark below the collar. I can't have Mary Margaret or, heaven forbid, Ruby asking me about my sex life if we’re going to do this, so take notes.”

Before he can even respond, Emma is slowly descending his body, her fingers dancing across his chest and abdomen as she easily sinks to her knees on the linoleum. He watches with wide eyes as her hands meet at the hems of his clothes. One hand pushes his shirt up a little as the other drags the waistband of his sleep pants down just a touch. Her mouth is right there, then, her tongue teasing at his hipbone before her teeth nip once.

“Bloody hell,” he wheezes out, as her mouth latches on. A cross between a moan, a sigh, and her name escapes his mouth as he attempts to melt into the wall at his back with his hands pressed flat against it. He’ll be surprised if, when he eventually moves from this spot, there isn’t a Killian-shaped singe on the wall.

With an audible pop, Emma leans back and inspects her handiwork. She smiles, satisfied and smug, before moving to stand again. In another smooth move, she slides back up, and makes sure to press close. His clothed erection goes right between her equally clothed breasts, and she leans up to speak directly in his ear when she's fully straightened.

“Work on it for next time,” she tells him, and pats his cheek a few times before turning away, grabbing her coffee, and going back down the hall. “I'm taking my shower now. How about we hit the road before noon?”

Perhaps the truths of his life with Emma are about to very drastically change.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s not until Emma closes the door to the bathroom that it even occurs to her what she’s just done, and then she can’t _stop_ thinking about it. The look on Killian’s face when he looked down at her is something she wants to bottle up and keep forever, if only to remember the way it looked to see him stunned and downright aroused, his focus one hundred percent trained on her.

With one night stands, it wasn’t about attention; it was about release. So she couldn’t give two shits about what they thought about her, or whether they noticed her eye color. The only thing she cared about them knowing was where tab A was supposed to fit into slot B, repeat as necessary, and then she found the door to take her leave.

Before that, she can’t remember a relationship where the other party was totally focused on her. Neal certainly wasn’t. But that was like the tip of the iceberg, as far as their problems went. They were terrible at paying attention to each other, which is what happens when days away from graduating high school you find your “soulmate” and run away with them while the diploma ink is still drying, and then think that life will be sunshine and rainbows from that point on. (Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.)

The other relationships she’s had were just further proof that she’s not cut out for them. They’re messy and complicated, even when things are seemingly going well. Walsh was the walking definition for “great until it wasn’t” with the end being so explosive that she immediately moved away from Boston. She didn’t want to heighten the chances of ever running into him again. Had his contract not been ending, she would’ve transferred units entirely. But then she wouldn’t have moved to Storybrooke so something good came out of that mess, at the very least.

Shaking her head, Emma pulls herself away from all of it and starts the shower. She finds her toiletries where she stores them in the closet and sets out everything she’ll need before stripping down and testing the water. She’s tempted to twist the knob, make the water as cold as possible to calm herself down. It doesn’t really help if she thinks about the way Killian’s body felt against hers, both last night and a matter of minutes ago. The hardness of his abs (yeah, sure, his _abs_ ), the strength in his arms but the tenderness of his hands, it’s all one delicious package that she’s now anticipating unwrapping the more she thinks about it.

Her hand finds the spot behind her ear again, the one that she heard him gasp over when she pulled up her hair. In the mirror, she can barely even see it, meaning the mark she just left on his hip is going to be darker than this one, but he still _kinda_ deserved it. Ruby and Mulan are coming for a visit later in the week and she would’ve dangled him off her balcony if he’d left something that Ruby could’ve seen and scrutinized.

Emma remembers the first and only time Mulan showed up to Drill Weekend with a near-constant blush and smile. When the weekend was over, Emma stayed in Boston an extra night and got to meet Ruby. At the very edge of Mulan’s shirt collar, there sat a mark far bigger and darker than the one currently behind her ear. The blush eventually faded away as she and Ruby got more serious, but the smile’s still sticking around.

She feels the way the corners of her lips are creeping towards her ears, and she can fully relate to the way Mulan basked in the emotions the actions left behind. Emma lets the grin full-bloom for a moment as she glances at herself in the mirror again. It’s been far too long since she’s gotten laid if a kiss (a damn _good_ kiss) caused this much elation. She gulps down the coffee that she brought in with her, not even caring when the liquid scalds her tongue because at least it distracts her from her previous thoughts.

There’s a part of her that’s worried about where this is all heading. Sure, she and Killian are close. But can they really do this? Can they really manage to mix friendship and sex without getting in too deep? With a hearty roll of her eyes, Emma enters the shower and flicks the curtain closed. Whether it’s at her own thoughts or the whole situation is still yet to be determined.

She hastens through her cleaning process before drying off and thinking over exactly what she’ll say to him when she opens that door, because this is probably something they should talk about before they jump in.

When Emma wanders out of the bathroom, it’s only to run directly into Killian. She doesn’t know if he’s been waiting there or if he just happened to pass by at that exact moment, but the second they collide, his hands are gripping her forearms and she’s back to staring at his lips instead of looking a little higher into his eyes. So she sees the smug little grin he gives her, watches as his tongue slides along his bottom lip to wet it, and leans back in, without a second thought, to kiss him again.

It’s intoxicating, kissing Killian Jones. He does this thing where his lips latch on to hers, this way he breathes her in, and pulls her closer, and why would anyone _not_ want to do this? She wants to do this all damn day, every day. But _talk_ , they’re supposed to talk about this first.

Emma shuffles them back until he’s pressed against the wall in the hallway. By his sharp intake of breath, she’s pretty sure the picture of him and his brother from last Christmas is digging into his back, but he doesn’t stop, just moves one of his hands into her hair and tilts her head so he can downright plunder her mouth like the pirate he always claims he is.

She could do this, let this go on, but she knows it’ll end up much less innocent sooner rather than later if her hands start roaming like they itch to do. With great reluctance, she pulls away and puts her hands on his chest to steady herself. The quick pulse she can feel through the flannel shirt he’s changed into makes her feel a little better about her own racing heartbeat.

“We need to talk about this,” she tells him sternly. Well, she means for it to be stern. Instead it sounds breathy and aroused and she is _screwed_ , and not even in the literal sense.

He’s grinning, not smugly this time, just full grinning from ear to ear and she’s fighting her own expression to not mimic it. “What do you wish to talk about, love?”

“Ground rules.”

“Ah, of course. Well, we can’t claim no kissing on the lips. We’ve already blown that way out of the water.”

She chuckles, untangling her limbs from his and turning back to grab her mug from the bathroom before returning to his kitchen to get more coffee. The soft padding of his feet leads to the living room, so she goes to join him there. “Kissing is fair game,” she says when she sits down on the other side of the couch. “And obviously there will be sex.”

“So eloquent, Swan. You really know how to woo a man.”

“Shut it. This is gonna sound ridiculous, but I don’t want to rush into this.”

At Killian’s sharp laugh, she glares at him with all of her power. Maybe deciding to sleep with her best friend was the worst idea in the world.

“I realize the whole point of this is to like, get some physical release and all,” she pauses as she takes another sip of coffee, “but is it possible for us to not sleep with each other immediately? It’s going to be a weird enough transition without the immediacy of seeing all of – “ she gestures with her hands to indicate head to toe “ – that.”

“Oh, you’re not ready to see the full packaged deal, then? Pity. I’ve already seen your whole _that_ so I suppose it won’t bother me one bit to have a moratorium on such sights.”

She’s about to protest, to argue that there’s no way he’s seen her naked, but then she remembers a night at the apartment complex’s pool, a party that the apartment manager somehow let go much later that it should’ve, and a little too much whiskey. After everyone else had gone home, she took a moment, when Killian was using her bathroom, to strip off every last stitch and dip back in to the warm water.

He’d walked out wearing a cocky expression on his face that quickly fell away when he spotted her in the water. It wasn’t until he’d politely turned around while she climbed out, his button up plaid shirt pilfered from a nearby chair and her underwear back in place, that he informed her that the flood lights illuminate the pool as if it’s daytime. He didn’t make eye contact for a week without accidentally glancing downward and turning chili pepper red.

Remembering that, the only thing she can do is grumble in response, finishing off her coffee and setting it carefully on a coaster on the table in front of her.

“Since we’re taking this in smaller steps, I suppose we can figure out the rest of the rules as we go along? Mention something when you think of it, and we can hash it out with each hurdle.”

“So wise, Jones. What would I ever do without your brains?” She doesn’t wait for his answer, going instead to the spare room and changing as fast as humanly possible before getting her rucksack to throw back into her car.

“Starve to death, Swan. You would starve,” he calls to her from his position in the living room.

“I can cook, you know,” Emma reminds him when she comes back into the room. “I cooked for myself long before you came into my life and I’ll cook for myself long after you’ve died in an unfortunate cooking accident, like you did in my Sims game that time.”

“I still can’t believe Sim Killian died in the kitchen because you didn’t have a bloody phone to call the fire department.”

“Poetic justice,” Emma sighs out. She quickly slides on socks and shoes and then beckons him to get ready to go. The kitchen supply store awaits.

-x-

Meetings with Mr. Hades can go two ways, or so Emma has noticed. Either Hades says something mildly antagonistic to Killian, Killian won’t take the bait, and the rest of his day will go on accordingly. Or, Hades will say something extremely antagonistic, patronizing, and douche-like, usually a direct insult on Killian as a person, and Killian will do something like pour béchamel sauce on Hades’ lap. After a feigned apology from Killian and a firm reprimand from Regina, Hades will verbally berate the both of them until he storms out of the country club while Killian makes jokes about there being no need to get so excited about his cooking.

The clouds will hover over Killian for the rest of the day, though, as Hades’ words really sink in and the digs dig deeper. Those underhanded comments will come back to haunt him and Killian will do what Killian does best in stressful situations: he will drink himself into oblivion, usually to the tune of Emma picking his sorry ass up from whatever bar he ends up in and dragging him home to care for him, both emotionally and physically.

In the years that she has been friends with him, she’s had an equal share of both accounts. He confided in her early in their friendship about what used to happen before she came along. It usually involved throwing up in dark alleys where a bar floozy would have dragged him to get a head start on whatever they ended up doing, sometimes ending things right there when he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet. It’s not like he didn’t still have one-night-stands once Emma came along, it’s just that he had a better control on the alcoholism that sometimes rides below the surface of his skin.

The day of the tasting menu, Emma is pure nerves waiting to see which Killian will walk away from the country club tonight. With an hour still left in her shift, she stares at her phone, willing him to text her any word of how it’s gone. The meeting started two hours ago, and normally they’re done by this point. Which either means it’s still going, or it’s already finished and he’s already drinking.

When her shift ends, so does her nail-biting. She heads home in her aged-but-trusty Bug, sighing a little in relief when she sees Killian’s car parked in the overflow spots next to the covered parking. The lights in the apartment are off, just the light of a gray afternoon in May filtering through the shutters over the balcony door. He’s in his recliner, his favorite blanket thrown across his lap. There’s a beer open on the end table, and other than a blank expression on his face while something plays on the television, he doesn’t seem to be in any state she’s used to seeing him.

Instead of joining him right away, Emma heads straight to her bedroom and changes into comfier clothes, tossing her uniform in the hamper to be washed with her army gear. He’s still in the same exact position where she left him, his expression stony and stormy just below the surface. She doesn’t say anything, just grabs his hand in one of hers, grabbing the blanket with the other, and tugs him over to the couch.

He’s wearing one of the new coats he just showed off, open and surprisingly clean given the day, but that’s the only change to his uniform with the exception of his shoes being by the door.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No,” he growls out. “Bloody wanker.”

It’s all he offers up as he settles onto the couch next to her. When she moves closer to his side and spreads the blanket over their laps, he loops an arm around her, and they both spend several minutes shifting around until they’re lounging and cuddling. This is nothing new in their lives. There are absolute moments where they crave nothing more than someone to hold, so this snuggling has been a part of their friendship since they were comfortable enough to touch each other.

The endless loop of a _Law & Order_ marathon plays on, but neither of them pay much attention. Emma is trained on his breathing, the steady rhythm of it ruffling her hair on every exhale. His heartbeat remains unfaltering beneath her palm, and she relaxes further into his side. They’re quiet for full minutes; she knows he’ll eventually talk about whatever is bothering him, but there’s no need to push him for explanations right now. In a gesture meant to comfort, her thumb moves lazily back and forth above his heart.

His breathing changes almost imperceptibly, a quickening that she wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t so fully relaxed, but it’s his heartbeat that gives him away. It springs to life beneath her touch, a jump before it’s hammering away until she’s sure it’ll push through the t-shirt he wears beneath his jacket. His calm is nothing but a façade, with the adrenaline of the day still lying dormant and waiting for something just like this, apparently.

She keeps up the steady movement, feeling the reflexive tightening of his grip on her shoulder.

“You ready to open that can of worms today, Swan?”

She grins without trying, without meaning to, pressing it into the fabric of his jacket. She can smell the kitchen on him, even under the scent of his deodorant and laundry detergent. He must not have cooked with the coat on because she would be smelling that above all else if he had.

“You couldn’t handle it,” she says, the words muffled where her face is pressed against him.

“We’ve been through this, love.” He shifts his arm, sliding his hand down along her side to hitch her shirt up just enough for his warm palm to settle on her bare skin. “I’m pretty sure we determined that neither of us could handle it, seeing as we’ve canoodled no less than six times since the initial time Sunday night.”

“Your point?”

“It’s Friday.”

She can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her, her shoulders shaking as she doesn’t bother to restrain it. The laugh is contagious, and soon enough they’re both chuckling at the absurdity of the situation they’ve found themselves in.

“Are you hungry?” she asks him once she’s collected herself once more.

“Out of all the questions we ask each other, do you suppose that one is our most frequent?”

“Well, you’re a chef and I like eating food. I think it’s just always on our minds. Are you? I’ll make something.”

“I could eat. But first.” In lieu of continuing, his free hand tilts her chin up so he can kiss her, his tongue sliding across her lips without wasting any time. Thirty seconds ago she was hungry, but now she couldn’t care less about food. She sinks against him, relaxing into his loose embrace, even if it defies the way her mouth is possessively claiming his.

She’s tempted to push it a little further, tempted to straddle his hips and see how it would feel to rock against him, feel if he’s as affected by her lips as she is by his. She’s just about to shift and find out when Killian’s stomach lets out a mighty growl, proclaiming that whatever their intentions, sustenance needs to be obtained first.

Killian groans in aggravation, releasing the kiss and flopping back into the couch. “I suppose that means it’s dinner time.”

Emma clucks her tongue at him and extracts herself from the cushions and his grip. “Come on. We’re going to Granny’s.”

The diner in question is a guilty pleasure, and the secondary reason why Mulan and Ruby will be visiting. While Ruby lives in Boston now, she’s a Storybrooke native, proving to Emma just how small of a world it really is. Her grandmother is the one who runs and owns the diner, and Emma’s not sure how she survived so long without Granny’s grilled cheese and onion rings. Killian has begged her for the recipe to the latter, with no success.

When they return to her apartment after dinner, Killian puts on a movie from her collection; it’s one they’ve both seen more times than they can count. It only takes a few minutes of them sitting on the couch together for him to pull her back to his arms, apparently craving the physical contact in the lingering discomfort of the meeting.

By the time the movie ends, Killian is mostly asleep, barely budging when Emma tries to get up, fails several times to find her balance, and then succeeds in one giant harrumph of energy. He grunts in protest and blindly reaches for a way to keep her close, his own personal teddy bear.

“C’mon, Jones. Up.”

“Where’m I going?” comes his sleepy reply. He struggles through the fog of sleep just enough to open his eyes and seek her out.

“To bed.” At his dubious look, she quickly clarifies. “To _sleep_. You work tomorrow. Give your poor back a break.”

“If you insist,” he drawls, the words lacking their usual lilt of tease.

“I insist,” Emma reiterates, pulling on his hands to urge him up and along behind her. She turns out the last lights in her bedroom when he rounds the bed, knowing they can both find their way from this point on, even though he’s never slept in this particular bed at the same time she has.  

A sudden beat of nerves pushes through her at the idea of Killian sharing the bed. It is not the first time they’ve slept side by side, but it is the first time after he damn well kissed her senseless earlier. He shirks the coat next to her bed, letting it fall to the floor to collect wrinkles of a most innocent nature. Without even exchanging words, he goes to the side that is not hers and takes the pillow she doesn’t use and stretches out in the space that usually remains empty. She wonders if it should be monumental that he’s the only man she’s ever permitted to stay, but doesn’t linger on the thought.

Instead, she climbs under the covers on her side and adjusts to being in a bed with Killian again after what’s probably been years. She expects him to fall asleep instantly, but instead he’s turning his head enough to look at her despite the darkness of the room.

“You don’t think this is too couple-y, do you?”

“No,” Emma responds easily. “I think it’s all in the situation. We’ve cuddled before during movies, hundreds of times even before this past weekend.”

“You’ve fallen asleep in the same bed as me before,” Killian adds. “You weren’t my girlfriend then, and you aren’t now.”

“I’m not gonna hold your hand,” she says, even as her knee presses against his thigh.

“Good. I don’t want you to hold my hand,” he claims.

“ _Good_.”

They lapse into silence again, until Emma comes up with their first rule. “The friendship comes first and foremost,” she says. He echoes it back to her, even as her hand snakes across his abdomen, searching out his. He meets her halfway, loosely linking their fingers together, and she absently kisses his clothed shoulder before settling back against her pillow. With his thumb gently stroking against hers, she falls asleep easily.

-x-

Nothing much changes between them as May slowly and hotly melts into June. An unexpected heatwave hits right as the tourist season is getting underway. Until the kitchen staff gets used to all the added responsibilities again, until their actions become muscle memory and they operate as that same amazing machine but at a faster pace, Killian spends every day at the club from before open until after close.

At the same time, the influx of unfamiliar faces and added humidity makes for more calls to the sheriff’s station. Emma and David are swamped beneath their work, with Mary Margaret dropping off food and sending them sympathetic looks that hide her glee-lit eyes. School let out at the start of June and she is officially free until September, and she’s soaking up every minute.

The only time Emma and Killian have time to hang out is when they’re sleeping. As easily as breathing, they fall into bed together. Other than some lazy, late-night make out sessions and a morning or two of frenzied wandering hands that don’t get far, the only thing they do together is sleep.

They’re too tired to notice that they aren’t doing what they originally set out to do, until her air conditioner breaks down on the hottest day in June. She doesn’t even know when it stopped working, since the night was cool enough to sleep with the windows open and the fan on for once, but the day brought heavy and lingering humidity as she made her way to work. The end of her shift doesn’t bring any relief, and it’s with great pleasure that she strips out of her uniform, flinging parts of it wherever they land and for once, not giving a single damn.

With a huff of annoyance, she sends a text message to Killian about the broken AC before putting on as little as she possibly can. The unit was probably manufactured in the 70s, and that’s if she’s being optimistic about the age. If he can’t fix the damn thing, Emma has no idea what she’ll do, but she’ll at least start with his services before giving up and moving into the guest room at his place if need be.

She ignores the fact that she probably wouldn’t be staying in the guest room if she went there.

Her phone buzzes from its spot on the kitchen counter, Killian’s response doing nothing to help the situation. At all. And she’s beyond frustrated at this point.

_Jones: Swan, you’ve just quoted the start of every bad porno I’ve ever seen, and if it helps at all, I will be there to “service” your “air conditioning unit” as soon as humanly possible._

_Jones: As in, I just finally clocked out after what feels like weeks, and I am on my way._

_Jones: Should I invite the pizza delivery man and the plumber?_

None of it deserves a response, so she leaves the phone on the counter and instead reaches into the fridge for the coldest beverage she can find.

After popping the cap off a bottle of root beer, Emma moves to the balcony. She wants real beer, but she really doesn’t need to be any more dehydrated at this point. Her apartment is downright suffocating. The balcony isn’t much better at this point, but that seems more likely to change. There are storm clouds rolling in, and Emma props up her ankles on the high railing around the small suspended patio.

Maybe this will mean a drop in the ridiculous humidity levels that have been hanging around. Maybe it means it won’t feel like she’s breathing in water whenever she steps outside. Maybe it’ll even clear her head from where it’s been fogged over since she first kissed Killian, but she’s not willing to bet on it.

Emma doesn’t know how long she sits out there, but the clouds roll in closer and faster, and she can actually see the sheet of rain headed straight for her. She braces for it, watching as it inches across the road in front of her apartment building and across the lawn, creeping closer to her balcony with each passing second, until it covers her from feet to head like a blanket. Within a matter of seconds, she’s drenched. She shimmies down in her chair, stretching her bare toes even higher in the air. She can’t even find the capacity to care that with each sip of soda, she’s probably also ingesting rainwater now.

Her head tilts back to rest on the chair and she closes her eyes, letting the sky scrub away the sweat and frizzy hair. She doesn’t open her eyes, even when she hears Killian’s car pull in the drive. She marks his progress by the car door closing behind the building, followed by the heavy metal door slamming shut. His shoes squelch on the stairs as he climbs them quickly and then she hears his key in the door. These are all the little sounds that make up her life, and she’s totally at ease with it.

Each noise is almost painfully familiar, and Emma knows that she has marked Killian’s movements hundreds of times since she moved into this building. She knows the weight of his steps more than any other. She can approximate with the moving of one hand how long it will take him to go from the outside door to hers. It is all so _known_ that she now has no clue how she ever lived without these things.

“You look ridiculous,” Killian says from the screen door. She doesn’t move a muscle, except her lips still quirk up into a smile.

“ _You_ look ridiculous,” she responds, and she hears his quiet chuckle. It now feels like years since she was sick back in March. The rain is slowing, and she glances to the side, propping her chin on her shoulder to look at him from beneath the rain that’s gathered on her eyelashes.

“One executive chef turned shoddy air conditioner repairman, reporting for duty,” he says when their eyes meet. She’s trying to not pay attention to the water that’s seeped through the shoulders of his chef’s coat or the way he looks good, even in the outlandish black and white striped pants he went with for the day. She wants to rip that coat open again. She wants to not _stop_ at ripping the coat open this time.

And maybe she can blame it on the humidity, a shallow excuse, but when she rises from the chair, she has that one goal in mind. Killian slides open the door as she moves forward and she knows the heat that’s suddenly in his eyes is reflected in her own. Their lips meet at the doorway, his hand immediately tangling in the wet mess of her hair while the other pulls her across the threshold. Almost absently, she reaches behind her to slide the screen back into place without her lips ever leaving his.

Emma shivers when his hand on her lower back draws her even closer, and she would attribute it to the AC if it were working, but it’s all due to her proximity to Killian and the fact that his chef’s pants really don’t hide the effect she’s having on him. His tongue slides against hers, but he’s just as soon moving away from her mouth and across her cheek, along her jaw, before drawing her earlobe between his lips.

“You taste like rain,” he murmurs against that same spot behind her ear (the one he is now rather well acquainted with), and he keeps traveling the path of the raindrops. She gasps when she feels his tongue licking a line from her shoulder over to her clavicle. Her hands are both in his hair, content to feel the slightly damp texture between her fingers, and just as happy to have no clue whether it’s due to the heat of hours in the kitchen or from the rain.

“Killian. Killian, wait. I want you to – no, that’s it. I just want you. But I need you to fix the AC before this goes any further or else I’m going to melt.”

He looks like he’s considering ignoring her request for a moment, but he squawks as he untangles himself and crosses to the wall-unit as quickly as he can manage. He gives it a couple well-placed smacks with the heel of his hand, and one good kick. Emma is about to tear into him about breaking the damn thing further when, lo and behold, it begins whirring away.

“You’re so fucking lucky that worked,” she says, stalking over to him and aiming to remove his chef’s coat. He lets it fall and reaches for the hem of her water-logged tank top. His tongue glides out over his lips in concentration as he slowly pulls the hem up, up, and up. She lifts her arms for him to slide the garment off, relishing the catch of his breath even though she doesn’t see the initial look on his face when he first glimpses her up close.

The top lands on the floor heavily, the weight of water adding to its momentum, and everything else stands still.

“You think we’ll be able to look each other in the eyes after this?” he asks quietly. He’s seen her naked; he’s joking, at least mostly anyways.

“Nah,” she responds. “You gonna touch or just look?” She pushes her chest forward, squares her shoulders, and Killian gives an exasperated laugh.

“Impatient lass,” he grumbles as his right hand finally moves forward to skirt up her ribcage. His palm scorches along her skin, his flesh just as heated as hers. Beyond the sliding doors, the summer storm is raging on, the heavy rain and thunder providing an unconventional soundtrack. A sharp flash of lightning hits just as Killian’s fingers graze her breast and he jumps as if shocked while Emma lets out a peal of laughter. She lifts his hand back and firmly plants his palm firmly back on, and he jolts again.

“Sorry, just thought if I did it quickly it’d be like ripping off a –“

He doesn’t let her finish, kissing her hard and shifting them so she’s up against the wall. Where his hand was almost timid, it comes to life now, and she has a hard time keeping track of either of them as they glide over the lingering sweat and rainwater still clinging to her skin. She’s eager to get this on with, but also tempted to let it draw out. The thought that this is supposed to be for the purpose of fulfilling a need crosses her mind again and Emma lets go, letting inhibitions slide away like the errant water dripping from her fingers.

In unspoken agreement, it’s suddenly a race to get each other naked, with Killian’s hands fumbling on the wet button on her jean shorts while Emma fights with the knot tying his uniform pants. She’s just shoved them down so he’s left in boxer briefs and a pair of socks when he urges her to follow him down to the floor. She hates to be a passive participant, but Killian has gently maneuvered her, urging her to lie back on the carpet as his mouth explores the expanse of nude skin from neck to navel. He slowly peels off the scrap of underwear she managed to put on, an impish smile forming as he raises an eyebrow at her.

He bends to nip at the same spot she would’ve given him a hickey that one time. “I’m almost certain we could recreate that scene from _Hot Shots_ when he fries an egg on her stomach,” Killian comments with his lips pressed against her hip, traveling toward the space between her thighs.

“Really, you are such a –“ Whatever word she was going for is lost because she’s gasping as his lips close around her clit and he’s sucking with just the right amount of pressure as his tongue flicks over the sensitive nerves. She’s trying her hardest not to push up into his mouth as her hands anchor in his hair once more. She digs her heels into the berber carpeting and doesn’t think about the various types of rug burn this encounter is going to leave her with. Her shoulder blades, in particular, are already feeling it.

A blast of cool air from the now-functioning AC unit breezes over her skin, pebbling her nipples even more and leaving goosebumps in its wake. While her drenched clothes may have been stripped off, her hair is still wet and there’s new perspiration breaking across her brow, making her feel cold and hot all at once.

She’s quiet at first, not even really noticing the soft, breathy noises she’s making as his tongue works against her clit. When his fingers join the party, the once-soft noises flutter a little faster from between her lips. His mouth feels like some kind of heaven, his hands like something given by the angels, especially when the one that’s not already occupied in pleasuring her slides up her slick stomach and his short nails rake down the valley between her breasts. She arches into the touch and lets the sensations consume her whole.

It’s been too long since she’s even gotten out her vibrator or taken some time with the removable showerhead, so it doesn’t take long at all for Killian to pull her over the point of climax. He works her through it, kissing her inner thigh but she suspects the move is mostly to wipe his mouth off.

“You know we’ve officially passed the point of being able to look each other in the eye, right?” Emma comments, her breath still a little labored.

“Aye, Swan. I accepted that as soon as you started making the noises that your neighbors can probably hear even with the sliding door closed.”

With a terse noise, Emma brings one foot up to push at his shoulder. Killian grabs it, placing one quick kiss to her ankle before releasing her again.

“Think the bedroom is cooled off yet?”

“It’s worth checking, not that you’ll stay tranquil for very long.”

That’s something she’s counting on as she stands with poise and beckons him to follow.


	5. Chapter 5

A fresh deluge of rain starts up outside and Killian wanders over to close the sliding glass door to the balcony. He’s glad that, while it’s past most workday hours for people, no one else in the complex seems to be home to have heard the beautiful noises that Emma makes in the midst of her passion. She’s already moved back to her room while Killian lingers. He needs the moment of reprieve, a quick moment to calm himself before surrendering himself, mind and body.

Surely, amongst everything Killian has done wrong in his life, he’s done some right. The proof is in the way Emma Swan is naked and swaying her hips as she wanders through the almost-cool bedroom.

It’s strange to think that, a couple months ago, he hadn’t even slept in her bed with her. They’d shared his once or twice when Liam had come for holidays, or David and Mary Margaret stayed in the guest room after a successful dinner night that included too much wine, and she decided to stay overnight. But for whatever reason, he’d never slept in her bed with her.

And now he’s about to share it in the most intimate manner possible. He’s still frozen outside the doorway to her room, watching as she extracts the hair tie from her messy bun. Her hair is still wet, but drying and curling now that they’ve been inside. The cold air from the AC unit (he still can’t believe hitting the bloody thing worked) has slowly made its way to her room, so just a hint of the heat and humidity remain. When she looks at him and raises an eyebrow, he realizes that he’s just standing there staring at her.

“Too much?” she asks as she perches at the foot of the bed.

“No,” he responds immediately, but it comes out huskier than he intends. He clears his throat and finally crosses the threshold of the room. He moves to stand in front of her, yanking her back to standing and winding his arms around her back. The thing about kissing Emma is this: she gives and takes in the same movement. She gives all of herself in every kiss, but she takes back all of him with each swipe of her lips.

They promised no emotions. They promised that the friendship comes above all else. He is afraid he’s already broken both of those promises with the way his heart speeds up just for her. He wonders if it was ever just about release for him. As Emma’s fingers creep under the hem of his boxers, he decides now is definitely not the time to ponder that.

There’s no hesitation this time when Killian cups her breasts. He feels the peaks of her nipples, eases the pressure of his grip to lightly draw his palms over each one while listening to the soft gasps she makes. His hands travel, his fingers brushing along the sides of her breasts before drawing them down her ribcage. She squirms, suddenly, her body shaking with a silent laugh as she tries to evade the touch.

“Swan, are you ticklish?”

“Nope, and if you still want to get laid right now, you won’t let your hands wander back to that spot again.”

Killian just snorts in response and continues his exploration of all the areas he’s never had access to. He bends his neck to kiss along her collarbone, to let his lips taste the spots that make her gasp in the low light of the storm-darkened room. She pulls him back up, her mouth relentlessly moving against his again. He barely pays attention as she maneuvers them around, only really noticing when she peels off his last item of clothing, the final barrier before they’re both left fully exposed.

With gentle hands to persuade him, Emma pushes him back onto the bed. She’s clearly moving with a goal in mind, but Killian stops her before her hand can even wrap around his erection.

“While I am greatly looking forward to whatever it is you just had in mind, I think we should save it for round two.”

“There’s gonna be a round two, huh? Not a one-time thing?”

“There will be as many rounds as you wish, love. But round one will be over fast. For you it’s been since the October before last, for me it’s been since that bloody pastry chef got hired in and I had to start doing the work of two people every time I entered the kitchen.”

“She’s been working there for over a year,” Emma exclaims. Instead of stubbornly heading down the path she was going, she ushers him further onto the bed to sit against the headboard while she walks around to her nightstand to pull out a pack of condoms. “That’s pretty much unheard of with you. Are you sure? Wasn’t there a girl at the bar on New Year’s?” Killian watches in amusement as she leaves the strip of foil packs on the mattress next to her pillow, even as she keeps talking. He’s suddenly thankful for his day off tomorrow, as he has a sudden impression he will need a day to recover from this. “Or was that one from the fourth of July? You remember, the redhead with the accent?”

“Oh oh! No, that was July, and she was only cozying up to me because she was trying to figure out if Ruby and Mulan were looking for a third.” He watches with rapt attention as she takes one of the packets and tears it open. It appears the time for foreplay has ended and she is taking the next step into the deeply undefined of their friendship. “Besides, I thought you went home with – oh jesus, what was his name? The blond doctor guy?”

“Victor? I _hated_ that guy! Whatever gave you the idea I went _home_ with him?”

Killian has every intention of responding, but Emma places the tip of the condom between her lips, a quick raise of her eyebrow the only warning as she bends and – he wouldn’t even comprehend it if he didn’t watch it happen – rolls the condom down the length of his cock with her mouth, with a little assistance from her hand. He jumps at the contact, longs to feel more of it, and is immediately bereft of the sensation.

“Sorry, but I just had to,” she explains. And before he can even blink again, she’s positioned above him, her knees on either side of his thighs. “Okay?”

He swallows and nods, placing his hands on her hips to guide her down as she takes his cock in hand to lead him in. She sinks down slowly, shifting until he’s in her to the base. He breathes out, a shaky exhale that Emma echoes as she pauses to adjust to him. The position is a lot more intimate than he would’ve expected of her, but he’s certainly not complaining.

Emma’s hips start a slow circle as her hands find his shoulders. Everything comes down to the sensation of her moving above him, her lips finding his again, her nails digging into his back, the wet heat of her around him. They stop being friends in that moment, becoming instead two adults chasing passion, chasing release, and finally finding it with him buried deep inside her, sweat slicking both of their bodies, arms wrapped tight around each other, sensations and feelings unlike any other hookup they’ve ever had.

Except, she looks up and smiles at him, a laugh tumbling out as she wipes her forehead and pushes her hair back in the same movement.

“Not a one-time thing?”

“Definitely not a one-time thing,” Emma clarifies as she gently extracts herself from Killian’s lap. She’s almost off the bed when he tugs her back for just one more kiss. He watches contentedly after that while she ties up her hair again and throws on a robe. “Snacks and rehydration?”

“Aye, I’ll meet you there.” He takes an extra moment to slip into the bathroom, disposing of the condom and cleaning himself up a bit before sliding his boxer-briefs back on and heading to the kitchen, but not without spotting his expression in the mirror in her bedroom. He looks happy, satisfied, replenished, and absolutely enamored.

That last one could be a problem, but Killian is more interested in round two.

-x-

“You are a surprisingly possessive lover.” He emphasizes each word with a tap to her nose and she swats his hand away. It’s hours and orgasms later, the storms of the day having faded down to a dull drizzle beyond the walls of her apartment as night descended.

“We’re not lovers, we’re sleeping together.”

“Whichever way you parse it, I’m pretty sure you scratched ‘Property of Emma Swan’ somewhere on my back.”

“The brush-burn from your beard says ‘Killian was here’ on my inner thighs. This is a two-way street, buddy.” She stares at him pointedly. It probably doesn’t help that he can still feel his shit-eating grin in place. “Also, that brings up another thing we should put down as a rule. You want to go for someone else, you just say the word. All joking aside, you aren’t mine, so I have no right to lay claim on you or something.”

“So, you’ve no intentions of marking me with your scent when we’re out and about with friends? You won’t be urinating on my leg to show ownership?” His hand snakes around to her neck, slowly massaging at the tension he can still sense just from looking at her. This was supposed to be about release, and she doesn’t seem to have relaxed at all. As his hand travels, his knuckle finds a knot along the column of her spine and he gently kneads at it to loosen it up.

“Definitely not,” she responds on a sigh. Her shoulders further slump and _finally_ relax.

“Good. _Also_ all joking aside, love, you can be on top whenever you’d like. I’ll be damned if the sight of you riding me like that isn’t one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen in my life.” Shit-eating grin, plus suggestive eyebrow raise, equals his favorite Emma eye roll, but she’s smiling through it this time.

“I’m so used to kicking guys out after sex that it would feel weird if you hadn’t spent the last couple weeks sleeping in here,” she remarks.

“So I’ve earned my spot in the bed?”

“And then some,” she mutters, then makes a noise of aggravation. “I’m a little mad that I know all of this about you now.”

“You’re mad because you’re now intimately acquainted with the size, shape, and abilities of my penis, correct?”

She snorts, burying her face into the pillow again. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Some might call me cocky,” comes his response; it’s just too easy to rile her up sometimes, and this is no exception. She laughs harder, hiding the sound in her pillow as she half-heartedly pushes against him.

“Bed privileges revoked! Be gone!” She pushes harder, laughing even as she tries to act annoyed and stern.

“I suppose,” Killian grunts when she finds a ticklish spot along his ribcage, “that I’ll just have to earn it back.” In a swift move, he has Emma on her back, her laugh carefree and happy and everything he’s ever needed to hear. While his body is well beyond spent, he makes sure to bring her to climax one last time until she’s sleepy and satisfied, curled up against his side.

-x-

He could lie and say he wakes up early, wakes to the feeling of Emma in his arms, still asleep and curled against him where she fell asleep. But it would definitely be a lie.

Emma is already cursing low and freely as she reaches for some far away buzzing sound when he starts to wake up. She’s reaching over him, which is confusing enough because if that’s her phone ringing, she usually keeps it on the nightstand closest to her side of the bed. She finally gets to it, half draped over him as she answers the call.

“Yeah,” she says by way of greeting, her voice grumbly and tired. “Oh, shit. No. We overslept.” Did they have plans? Are they supposed to be somewhere? Still partially asleep, he rolls beneath her until he’s on his back, one arm lazily snaking around her bare waist. “No, we stayed up watching movies last night.”

Lying to Mary Margaret is unusual for her, and he can feel her tense when she does. She’s still hovering over him, her breasts tantalizing him from mere inches away, and Killian glances up at her as he wakes up in quicker increments.

Since he values all his limbs, he opts to leisurely stroke his fingers along her back and up towards her scalp. He focuses on the back of her neck again while she chats. A slow smile spreads across her face as she settles back down against him. The low murmurs of her responses, along with her soft breathing, nearly lulls him back to sleep.

It occurs to him that he’s on Emma’s side of the bed, and suddenly he is much more alert as he waits for the phone call to end.

“Of course,” Emma finally says. “We’ll be there in an hour. I need a shower.” She pauses again, and he can see the blush suddenly staining her cheeks, down her neck and below until he can no longer see where it ends. “I’m gonna guess that he does. He worked yesterday and came straight over to fix my air conditioner.” Another pause, and her free hand starts wandering down his torso. “Yeah, like I said. About an hour. We’ll see you there. Okay. Sounds good. Bye!” She locks her phone and tosses it somewhere behind her on the bed just as her hand makes contact with his cock, just coming to attention as his mind wanders to what’s below that flush of her skin, and remembering how she looked, flesh heated and cooled in cycles the night before.

“Emma,” he groans. “You said we would be wherever in an hour. You and I both need showers.”

“It’ll save time if you just join me,” she says nonchalantly. “If you’d like to, that is. I know that when I leave this bed – say, to go to the bathroom or something – that you’ll just take up the whole fucking thing, anyways.”

He’s chuckling even before she finishes speaking, knowing that with how deeply he must’ve slept, any space unoccupied when he rolled in his sleep would’ve been quickly usurped.

“Apologies, love. I’ll strive to make it up to you.”

She gives him a skeptical look, but shimmies off the bed and towards the door with Killian close behind.

-x-

It turns out they were missing from lunch with Mary Margaret and David, the resident Snow White and Prince Charming in their fairy tale life. After a very thorough round of satisfactory shower sex, Killian left Emma to finish getting ready while he met up with the lovebirds.

“Ah, _someone_ looks like they got lucky,” David says as Killian walks up to the table, bounce in his step, tune whistling through his lips.

“You bet I did,” Killian responds without thinking. The second the words leave his lips he regrets just about every life choice he’s ever made, and maybe some he didn’t. It’s been five seconds and he’s already blown the secret he and Emma created the night before. He scoots onto the bench of the booth and waits for the chopping block.

“I didn’t even think you went out this weekend,” he comments, looking at Killian as if he’s somehow managed to bend time to his will. “I thought work has been too crazy.”

Or maybe he didn’t blow it, yet. “Ah, I didn’t. Work has kept me from the bar crawls, but there was a lass at the country club’s bar a few days ago that was more than happy to accompany me home after a long day of work.”

“Do you even try?” Killian can’t really respond, just shrugs and laughs it off, instead. “What does Emma think of this?”

“Who’s to say she knows? And anyway, why would she have an opinion on the matter?” He sounds defensive, and he can tell, but there’s no taking back the tone of his voice at this point.

“I just thought you shared everything with her, that’s all I meant by it,” David explains, holding up a calming hand as he speaks. Any further tension is broken when Mary Margaret returns to the table from the restroom, delicately sliding into the spot next to David.

“Hi, Killian. Emma on her way?”

“Aye, she should be along momentarily.”

“Huh. You get lucky recently? You have that whole glow about you,” she says, waving her hand to indicate his whole being.

Killian flushes red, the color traveling to the tips of his ears with the vibrancy of his embarrassment. It’s one thing to have David speculating about his sex life, but another thing entirely when his girlfriend can tell. He’s saved from answering when Emma drops into the booth next to him, pushing at his hip with her own to get him to scooch further in.

“Did you know Killian got laid?” Mary Margaret asks before Emma’s even settled.

“Have you seen this guy?” Emma asks without missing a beat. “He’s a walking advertisement for the afterglow.”

Instead of commenting, Killian just scrubs a hand across his face. He’s spared any further words on that subject when the waiter comes to take their drink orders.

“Anyway, sorry I’m late. Someone took a little longer finishing in the shower than I expected him to,” Emma continues, and Killian almost chokes on his own tongue.

“Sometimes I just like to take my time when the day prior has been strenuous and exhausting.” He focuses on the menu in his hands for a moment longer than necessary, just long enough to keep his facial expressions under control before looking at her and raising an eyebrow. The look in her eyes promises a quick death, which he will gladly welcome if they make it out of this lunch alive.

“You two bicker as much as a married couple,” David mutters, lightly smacking his menu back onto the table and looking between Killian and Emma like they’re crazy.

Mary Margaret places hers gently back on the table, on top of David’s, and reaches for his hand. “And that’s sad coming from the practically married couple of the group,” she adds, smiling warmly with laughter in her eyes. He’d be worried about the comment if she had tea in her hand, and her classic look of judgement over the rim of the cup. It’s an expression he’s been on the receiving end of far too many times for him to recall, especially after he has been drinking in any combination of David and/or Emma.

“If either of us could find what you’ve found, love, we would be all too lucky.” He means it, and he glances at Mary Margaret long enough to catch what’s coming next.

“You just have to have hope,” she tells him sincerely, and he wonders just how much wool he’s managed to pull over anyone’s eyes regarding his feelings for the woman seated next to him. The corners of his mouth lift into a smile and he winks before turning his attention back to the choices in front of him.

-x-

The biggest change that comes in the middle of July is the official firing of the Pastry Chef from Hell. After a week straight of the bloody woman calling off every day or leaving early, Killian finally had a meeting with Regina about how to proceed. They arranged a meeting to release her services, and it came as no surprise when she called off from that, as well. She was told in no uncertain terms to not bother reporting to work ever again.

With Regina still scouring to find a replacement, and no one else in the kitchen having pastry experience, it falls on Killian to fill any of the pastry requirements the club is in need of. Which is why he’s still there late one night when a bride demands there be a cookie table for her reception the following day.

With the bar still open upstairs, he leaves the door leading to the kitchen unlocked as well, partially in anticipation for the arrival of baked good reinforcements. He’d reached out to David, begging him to get Mary Margaret to make some of her famous clothespin cookies in a variety of flavors. He’d gotten a text just a half hour prior to let him know they would be arriving any minute, but instead of Mary Margaret or David, he hears Emma’s voice calling out to him as she comes down the stairs.

“Killian? What are you still doing here? It’s almost ten!” She has an oversized cakebox in front of her, but they must not have filled her in on what was going on, and he hasn’t had the time to inform her. She sets the box off to the side as she wanders over to his workspace.

“Baking,” he says tersely. He’s hunched over one of the prep counters, piping bag in hand dropping colorful batter onto a lined baking sheet. It’s the last of the batter, the last straw of his nerves, and while Emma’s presence calms him slightly, he’s still too wound up to fully relax.

With well-practiced moves, he fills the tray with uniform circles and holds out the piping bag. Emma moves quickly to his side to grab the proffered item, holding it as he once showed her so it doesn’t leak out at all, and shuffling back a step when Killian starts tapping the tray against the workspace a little harder than usual.

“What can I do to help?” she asks, and he almost weeps with relief.

He finally settles the pan and straightens from his hunched over position. One deep inhale, one deep exhale, and then he’s gently shifting their positions so he’s in front of an empty cookie sheet and she’s standing by a rack. His hands linger only a moment, not having the time to do more than caress her sides in a brief gesture before redirecting his thoughts back to the task at hand. With one last stretch, he takes the bag of batter back from her to get through the last of it.

“If you wouldn’t mind, when I’ve finished piping these onto the trays, tap them against the bench and slide them on to the rack so they can get a film and dry out a little. You sure you’re up for staying a little while? They have to be in open air for at least forty-five minutes,” he tells her, grimacing as he goes to hunch again and begin piping a new tray.

“I’m sure. As long as I get a cookie for compensation,” she informs him with a cheeky little grin.

He chuckles, nodding with his head towards the closed cakeboxes on the shelf above where he’s working before resuming his task. He watches as she pushes the lid up on the closest one to see row upon row of the colorful confections, all French macarons in, all the colors of the rainbow, and she looks momentarily bombarded by all the choices.

“The dark blue ones are blackberry, and the pink ones are rose cream. The tan ones will be your favorite. They’re cinnamon bun.” She immediately snatches one of those when he’s done explaining, but he continues anyway. Chocolate ganache, vanilla bean, cappuccino, salted caramel, jasmine, mint julep, and the list goes on. Fruity, sweet, savory, everything he could think of on short notice.

Twenty-five varieties of these in total, five varieties of shortbread cookies he managed to get help with earlier in the day before his kitchen staff ran for the hills, ten varieties of the clothespins. He prays the crazy soon-to-be-missus finds it all to her liking. He’ll need to find an appropriate thank you for his friends in repayment.

The lemon crème brulee filling for the last batch still yet to be baked – a light and airy lemon base – is already made. Now that Emma is by his side, the last batch is going much quicker than anticipated.

Thoughts of the meeting with Hades over the spring and summer menu start creeping back in on him, on the way the sadistic man had torn apart each dish Killian had prepared for him.

_“I feel like I’m on a bad episode of any Food Network competition show right now.”_

_“Tell me, Chef Jones, do you have any imagination at all or does Martha Stewart create all your contrived dishes?”_

_“I wonder how Mr. Gold is doing finding another chef to run this place. Maybe one with the capability to earn a Michelin star or two.”_

“Killian?” Emma’s voice is soft, and slightly concerned, and he realizes that he’s scowling hard enough to burn a hole through the bench in front of him. He takes a few calming breaths, finishes off the tray that’s half filled in front of him, and passes it over to her while he shakes the rest of the tension from his body. While Emma is carefully tapping the tray to get rid of possible air bubbles, Killian sets a timer on his phone.

The time that passes while the cookies set is spent mostly cleaning up. He tasks Emma with matching up proportionate pairs of the chocolate mint and mocha cookies that he’d set aside to cool before she got there while he prepares piping bags for each respective type.

It’s almost one o’clock in the morning by the time they leave, his body aching, his kitchen spotless, and the club deserted; the bar staff is long gone by the time he locks the door behind him on the way out. He’ll have to be back early in the morning to supervise the preparation for the cocktail hour and reception, to oversee every detail to make sure it’s exactly what the bride wishes, with Regina looking over his shoulder at every turn.

She’d barely managed to restrain him from making comments at the meeting, stepping in between him and Hades and redirecting the conversation towards the in-season goals. Later, she’d rounded on Killian, reminding him that she would rather not see him fired, despite the fact that he seemed to be begging for it that particular day. With a furrow in her brow and a pursing of her lips, she had turned on her heel and exited, but Killian could still see the lingering concern beneath the expression of annoyance. Though they definitely had their differences, Regina didn’t seem in a hurry to watch him walk away from the club.

Killian is so lost in his own thoughts and heavy exhaustion that he doesn’t fully notice when Emma follows him to his truck until she calmly takes the keys out of his hand and redirects him to the passenger side. There’s not an ounce of fight left in him, so he goes quietly, climbing in and buckling himself in while she does the same.

“We’re going to your place. It’s quicker. There are leftovers from yesterday, so you’re going to shower while I heat them up. You’ll eat, then you’re going directly to sleep. I’ll drive you back and get my car in the morning.”

He hums happily, sliding his hand onto her thigh just above her knee and settling into the seat. “I love it when you boss me around, Swan. I do prefer it in the bedroom, but I’ll not object to any of your orders.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes for the entire ride to his place.

True to his word, he heads straight for the shower after collecting something to sleep in. When he emerges, Emma is just plating up some of the ratatouille they’d made together the day before, already in her own pajamas and looking just as delectable as the food.

Other than kissing her shoulder in appreciation and a quick squeeze to her hip through the sleep shirt she’s wearing, he doesn’t press any further. He has no energy to properly take care of her, and no time to enjoy such pleasant distractions this time around.

Emma shoos him to the bedroom when he’s done eating, clearly taking over the cleaning of the dirtied dishes and not letting him lift another finger. While he’s asleep almost as soon as he hits the bed, he wakes up enough to know when she’s joined him.

She carefully maneuvers herself into the spot in front of him, evidently trying hard to not disturb him. Without a word, he places his hand on her hip again in a gesture of reassurance. She hesitates a moment before she grabs his hand and cradles it against her chest, and they both shift until there’s no space left between their cocoon of blankets in the chill of the central air. A contented sigh leaves both of them, and he’s asleep again in minutes.  


	6. Chapter 6

The thing about having a best friend like Killian is this: Emma is pretty good at knowing exactly which buttons to push at exactly which time. Prime examples of this have happened all across the timeline of their friendship, and sleeping together doesn’t change that one bit.

Killian’s expression when Emma needled him about the time they took in the shower the morning after their first night together was totally worth it. She held such high reservations about what them having sex would mean to their friendship, but the entire first event proved that nothing about them changed in the face of a new form of intimacy. They’ve always had a particular level of coziness in their encounters, and so transitioning from friends who hang out and watch movies to friends who hang out, watch movies, then fuck each other’s brains out was almost as easy as breathing.

Speaking of breathing, there is the little hiccup with how her breathing speeds up when she thinks of him now. How her lips tilt up just the tiniest bit at the mere thought of his name. Seeing him smile at her warms her so much that she feels the need to crank the AC up just a little bit more when he’s around.

It was a shock to see Killian upset the night she showed up at the club with an unmarked box from Mary Margaret. She didn’t explain, just told Emma to get to the club and rescue Killian from himself, told Emma to give him a big hug from her and David. She was actually worried when she showed up, until he explained the situation and she realized he was just stressed and exhausted out of his mind.

She’d had hopes of coaxing him into a bottle of wine, out of his uniform, and into the pool. Taking care of him didn’t fall into the same category, really, but waking up before the alarm to his gentle nudges made up for it. Especially when those little nudges turned into kisses, which turned into a lot more than just kissing very quickly.

He was still heavily deprived of sleep when they drove to the club that morning, but he kissed her hard before they got out of his truck, and then he all but skipped into the building to set up while she drove back to her apartment to sleep for a couple more hours.

The last of summer means busy days, and with a candidate finally found but not yet interviewed for the position of pastry chef, Killian is still pulling extra time at the club. It’s been three weeks since the cookie table incident, and they’ve seen each other in snatches in that time. Regina has assured him that the candidate is a good one, they just have to wait for a time that the potential new chef can get to Storybrooke.

So when he comes over one night after work smelling amazing, she can’t _really_ be blamed for her actions, can she? He’s not taken two full steps into her apartment when she’s a lunge away from tackling him, leaning close to get a whiff of the lingering scent of cinnamon, the baked in aromas of puff pastry, the soaked in smell of chocolate where he no doubt dumped a full piping bag of chocolate mousse down the front of his uniform. He sighs, slowly and carefully unfastening the coat to hand it over, and she happily grabs it and inhales.

“That has ten hours of kitchen sweat on it, love. Just remember that.” But she ignores him, waving him away as if he’s no longer needed now that she has a scent Yankee candle should really look into. He wanders down to her bathroom, probably intent on at least washing his face before they settle in to watch a movie.

Instead, she has the express pleasure of watching his face, watching his jaw drop as his eyes pop open wide. On the couch, she lounges happily, her clothes otherwise discarded except for the coat on her shoulders and the blue lace panties she may have slipped on before his arrival, just in case.

Emma rises gracefully off the couch and slinks towards where Killian is still frozen in the hallway just outside the bathroom. “Missed a spot,” she says, her voice low and suggestive right before she drags her tongue across a smear of chocolate left along his collarbone. The noise he makes before he backs her into her bedroom is something she is _very_ proud of.

It’s not always so perfect. There’s a day in mid-August when he’s working on the fall/winter menu where she shows up to the smell of fish. Overwhelming scallops, to be exact. The stench of them permeates the air and Emma’s eyes immediately sting.  

“Hello, love,” Killian calls out, bent over his notes as always and thus missing the look of abject horror on Emma’s face as she peers around the corner.

“What the fuck have you done?”

“What? Oh. I had to use my stovetop. I’ve just about – Emma? Where are you going?”

She waves him off as she heads to his bedroom, stripping off articles of clothing as she goes. “Shower. Find something, _anything_ that doesn’t smell like _that_ and I’ll be waiting when you’re done.” She slams the door behind her in hopes of escaping the stench.

Their night borders on romantic when he lights every scented candle he owns, placing them carefully along every surface in the bedroom. And she doesn’t entirely hate it.

“What’s your favorite thing to cook?” The fact that his head is still somewhere by her hips doesn’t deter her from asking. After all, he just seems to be hanging out down there while he regains his energy.

“Duck.” There’s no hesitation, and she feels the smile that’s already permanently pasted on her face after sex with Killian get just that little bit wider.

“Why duck?”

His head pops up as he leans on his elbows, that excited gleam in his eyes that he gets whenever he talks about food. “Well, it’s fowl that you can cook like red meat. Plus, you can render the fat from it and use it to cook anything else.”

When all she can give back is a blank stare, he recollects his thoughts, huffs out a breath, and shimmies to sit up. There’s no doubt in her mind that Killian is doing exactly what he was put on this earth to do as his career, as the enthusiasm in his voice and stance screams volumes.

“It’s a lot like bacon fat. It makes everything a million times better. Duck fat fries?” He makes a noise, a groan she’s used to hearing when he’s close to orgasm, so to hear it in relation to fries makes her chuckle. “I’ll make them for you soon. Just imagine that butter had sex with bacon and olive oil at the same time. The baby from that union would be duck fat.”

“That is, uh, quite the threesome,” she says, still hung up on the noises he was just making. “Which, for the record, is not something I’m into. Just to put that out there.”

“Darling, unless another you were to appear in this bedroom, I have no desire to share what goes on between these sheets.”

For some reason, hearing that calms some unnoticed storm within her, and she likes the idea that Killian has no desire to share her with anyone, and that she doesn’t want to share him with anyone. But it brings about another not-so-startling revelation that she’s finally admitting to.

Emma likes Killian, and it’s no longer just two friends having sex for her.

-x-

The stars align that weekend, where a large portion of the people Emma hangs out with are able to meet up at the bar at the same time; this is a rarity during the summer months, as all their jobs become much more demanding than they are during the off-season months. Emma’s the last to arrive, elbowing her way through the crowds that have gathered, until she’s found the corner where her friends have taken residence.

David and Mary Margaret are being sickly adorable, as usual. She’s surprised to see Ruby and Mulan in attendance. There are at least four other people she knows in the near vicinity locked in various conversations, and a sweep of the bar reveals even more familiar faces. The one that she definitely doesn’t recognize seems to have captured Killian’s attention, as he leans over, his elbow on the bar and his chin in his hand, laughing and clearly absorbed in whatever the pretty brunette is saying.

_Of course_ he would find someone right after she decided she was most definitely into him as more than a sex friend, as more than her best friend, and after realizing that it was probably because the connection they have is so close that they might as well be dating. Of fucking course, it would happen now.

Shaking it off, she grabs one of them empty glasses on the table and fills it from one of the three pitchers floating between all her friends.

“Emma!”

She lifts her head at the greeting, letting the smile lift her lips, even if her heart isn’t in it. It’s Ruby’s voice calling to her, and she shifts past a few lurkers on the outskirts of their tables to reach the couple.

“Uh oh, I recognize that face,” Mary Margaret says from across the table, her voice pitched to be heard over the music and loud chatter around them. “What happened? Who pissed you off?”

_Dammit_. This is precisely why she refuses to play poker with her friends. Her game face is the absolute worst.

“I’m fine. Just a long day.”

“You know what it’s a good night for, then?” Ruby asks, and Mulan fights to hide her grin against Ruby’s shoulder.

“Let me guess, Business Beers?”

Business Beers were invented for the sole purpose of getting drunk as fast as possible. On one particularly rough night about a year before, Ruby had been up to visit her grandmother and Emma had the worst night on record at her job, and she took down three beers in a very short span of time. When Ruby noticed how fast they were going down, she told Emma that she looked like she meant business with that drinking speed.

Two more beers later, they’d decreed that Business Beers were a _thing_. Two more beers later, Killian was holding back her hair while she emptied all her _business_ in the toilet. He ordered her to start drinking Business Water until he could close out his tab and take her home, but she politely (not really) explained (babbled at him drunkenly) that Business Water was nowhere near as cool as Business Beers.

Thankfully, no other nights including Business Beers have been quite as bad as the first one, but they’ve continued to be an occurrence when days just get a little too rough.

This seems to be a good night for another repeat, what with Killian off chatting up some chick she’s never seen before and the rest of her friends all happily paired off.

Twenty minutes later and on the way back from the bathroom, Emma gets cornered in the hallway leading to the restrooms by a man named Greg. He seems nice enough at first, friendly and chatty. She’s just at that level of drunk where she feels unstoppable and happy, and even Greg isn’t enough to ruin her mood yet.

The _yet_ is key, because it’s only another minute later that she feels creeped out and cornered, feels like Greg is a little too handsy, and this is usually when Killian appears at her side to play the part of doting boyfriend to his wandering girlfriend. Emma takes a moment to subtly slide her hands across her pockets, cursing herself when she realizes that her phone is still at the table, tucked into her purse. She shifts her eyes just a bit, smile frozen in place, trying to see if Killian is still around. He is, but he’s chatting to the same woman as before, and Will has appeared by his side, the two of them making eyes at the unknown woman.

She recognizes what this guy is doing, shifting closer so she goes further and further back into the hallway, out of sight from the majority of the bar patrons and isolated from anyone who could “save” her. The only reason she continues to wish she had her phone was so Killian would know she was closer to breaking this dude’s face if he tries anything.

It’s when Greg’s hand ends up on her ass that Emma finally snaps. She may be pleasantly drunk, but self-defense training is hard to forget, so in a heartbeat, she has Greg’s arm twisted up behind his back and the creep in question pressed face first against the wall.

“For the record, I was trying to be polite, but you come on too strong and touch without asking permission,” Emma hisses at him. After another yelp from her captive, she releases him, only noticing after that Killian is a few feet away at the mouth of the hallway, his eyes wide and his face absolutely distraught.

“Thanks buddy, I got it covered,” Emma snaps at him, pushing her way out of the hallway in the direction that Greg already fled, intent on getting her purse and getting the hell out of here. She’s unrightfully mad at Killian for the whole situation, and she knows it, but she can’t help the slight feeling of betrayal sitting beneath her breastbone.

“Swan, don’t make a man drink alone,” he says jovially, trying to cover whatever was in his expression when he found her in the hallway.

“Not in the mood for another drink,” she says tersely, not bothering to even pause as she throws down a few bills to pay for her share of the beer and add to the tip, “Or, another man.” She doesn’t bother trying to get the attention of anyone to say goodbye, their principle of ghosting much handier than trying to bring the party down with an exit.

She’s outside when she realizes that she can’t drive herself home, and she grabs her phone out of her purse to call a cab. She sees the unread texts from Killian at that point, but doesn’t stop to check them. The phone is at her ear and barely has a chance to ring once before she’s gently tugged back. Killian is right behind her, the door to the bar swinging closed behind him, and he deftly grabs the phone and ends the call.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were in need of assistance.” He holds her phone out to her and she snatches it back.

“It’s fine,” she answers, waiting for him to turn around and go back inside so she can call her damn cab and just go home already, but he just stands there, and she sighs, realizing that he’s not going to leave until she makes him. “You can go back inside. I have money for a cab, I know how to get myself home.”

“Why on earth would I want to go back in? I’ve been waiting to even drink until you got here. I can give you a ride home.”

“Don’t you have someone waiting in there for you?” The jealousy in her voice makes an appearance and all at once she hates herself for sounding so petty. But all he had to do was tell her he wanted out. Maybe that’s what the text messages she still hasn’t checked say. Maybe she’s still unreasonably angry with him.

“I’ve no one I want to go home with besides you, Swan,” he answers carefully. There’s a furrow between his eyebrows as he searches her eyes for something, and his face suddenly relaxes and he looks like he’s fighting back a grin. “You never checked your messages, did you?”

Still glowering, she shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Bloody hell, love. You really are as stubborn as they come.” He rubs his hand tiredly over his face, and she can feel her aggravation spiking. “Had you bothered to look at your phone since arriving you’d have noticed I was trying to introduce you to our new pastry chef, Belle. Will has taken quite the shining to her, and she was telling me about the no less than five ridiculous things he did in her presence today.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” she bristles back at him.

“Why are you so upset to begin with? I haven’t broken any of the bloody rules we set down, I’ve remained honest with you through all of this, and yet you don’t trust me as soon as the first threat appears to the balance we’ve created?”

“That’s what you think this is about, that I don’t trust you?” She drops her arms, clenching her fists at her side because it’s a better course of action than reaching out and strangling him.

“Is that not what it’s about?”

“Of course I trust you,” she exclaims, just this side of yelling, and he gives her a perplexed look.

“Why are you pulling away from me, then?”

“Because everyone I’ve ever been with has left me behind!” Her outburst leaves them both momentarily stunned, and he looks absolutely torn as to what action to take next. But she continues on, knowing that now is as good of a time to tell him as any, alcohol in her system be damned. “I’ve lost everyone. I can’t lose you, too.”

She watches as Killian’s face immediately softens and he moves just a little closer.

“Well, love. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not planning on going anywhere, no matter how hard you try to shake me loose.” He advances on her, pulling her close and kissing her before she can think about the fact that they’re still out in the open in front of the bar.

Honestly, if any of their friends walk in on this moment, she wouldn’t even have the energy to care. His left hand rests on her hip as his right one urges her closer, which she’s happy to comply as her arms slide around his waist, under the open flaps of his chef’s coat. When she’s fully fitted against him, his right hand glides into her hair, massaging her scalp as his lips work against hers. She relaxes into it, her hands the only part of her tensed as they ball into the back of his undershirt.

“Shall we take our leave?” he murmurs against her lips a few minutes later. She nods, leaning up to kiss him one more time for good measure.

They’ve shifted again in their terminology, but she no longer has any idea what to call them. She’s sure there’s a word for what they are, but it’s just on the tip of her tongue, just beyond reach, just beyond comprehension. Maybe if she could figure out what to label them as, everything else would just fall into place.

-x-

She’s not always on top. There was a whole week before her last period where they brought out her copy of _Cosmo Kama Sutra_ in an attempt to stop her from acting like a cat in heat; some pages they diligently bookmarked after and others she was tempted to rip out and throw away, or burn, or send back to the editors, along with an angry letter that would say ‘HOW?’ and nothing else.

So even though she’s used to being on her back, or her side, or her knees above or below him, it still feels as though the change between them is more pronounced when they get back to his place that night. She can tell how much he’s holding back his own pleasure, instead focusing all his attention on hers, making sure she’s reached orgasm twice before he even enters her. All she can really do is hold tight, processing her state of total euphoria as he drags this out, as well.

“You are insatiable,” he whispers against her lips once he's begun a slow rhythm. “You're beautiful. So bloody intelligent that I can't stand it sometimes.” The words are spoken against the skin of her neck, across the swell of her cheek, next to her ear so that she feels his breath wisp into her ear with the honey-sweet words. “And I am honored to be your friend, and even more so that you've chosen to share this with me.” He emphasizes the last part with a deep thrust to make his point, and she holds on tighter in response.

The second the tear leaks out of the corner of her eye, he stutters and pauses his motions, concern taking over his facial features. He moves to pull away, but she hitches one leg higher around his waist, locking it around him to hold him in place.

“Don’t stop,” she tells him. “Keep going.” She nods in encouragement before pulling him back down to kiss her while her hips lift in invitation to move again. It takes another silent moment before he finally does, his lips only leaving hers when he pulls back to concentrate on delivering them both the pleasure that he’s been stalling.

Her lips find the column of his throat when he leans close enough again; the taste of his skin is salt, and it mixes with the lingering taste of beer on her tongue, and she just can’t help it when she mouths _mine_ against him – once, twice – a silent mantra that she won’t admit if she doesn’t have to. He plants his hands firmly on either side of her head, apologizing softly when he accidentally leans on a section of her hair, and he takes a moment to shift it out of the way before taking up his stance again. He moves in earnest, after that.

Just as he’s graceful in the kitchen, Killian is also ridiculously lithe during sex. It’s something she’s noticed since the first time but takes extra care to appreciate it this round. She lets her hands roam his shoulders and back, feeling the shifting of his muscles beneath his skin; it’s a whole new art-form that she can appreciate, choosing to use her hands to _feel_ the lissome movements instead of watching them.

His rhythm is steady and deep, so when the motions go shallow and shorten, she knows he’s close. He shifts again, sliding one hand to just above where they’re joined to circle her clit with just the right pressure, just the right attention to detail to do _exactly_ what she likes until she’s arching up, her chest bumping against his in the close proximity as her breath catches and releases with her climax. With just a few more strokes, he’s following her over the peak, burying his face against her neck where she pretends he’s mouthing _mine_ against her skin like she did with him.

He groans softly into her shoulder as he comes, and it’s probably the effects of the lingering alcohol that are to blame, but she can’t stifle the chuckle that bubbles up in her post-orgasmic haze. The look on his face when he raises his head speaks volumes of the cacophony of emotions he’s experiencing. There’s satisfaction and affection, befuddlement and amusement – all of it mixing together as he tries to catch his breath while a drop of sweat travels from his temple to get lost in the scruff of his beard.

“I could swear we were having a really great moment up until you began laughing. Care to enlighten me, love?”

She pinches his side gently, still smiling. “I thought we had a rule about that particular nickname when you’re, you know, inside me.”

“Ah, of course. Care to enlighten me, fuckface?”

“I think sleeping with me is starting to affect your speech habits. You sound like me,” she says, laughing this time. “Also, you know you make the same noises during sex that you do when describing duck fat, right?”

“The two are practically synonymous, Swan. When you try them, you’ll understand. You’ll agree. It’ll happen.” While he speaks, he gently pulls out of her, sucking in a breath from the sensitivity and moving gently to get off the bed and head toward the bathroom. Once he’s cleaned up, he returns and climbs back up the length of the bed to settle on his side next to her.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she tells him as she reaches for the sheet where it’s kicked nearly to the foot of the bed. Only once it’s tugged up and tucked around her does she try to figure out how to say what she wants to say next. “I got an extra ticket to the dining out for this year.” She looks closely at his face while she says it, the low lamplight providing just enough for her to see any expression that may deter her from continuing.

But all she sees is patience and pure Killian, so she keeps going. “It won’t be until the end of October, but I was wondering if you’d want to go with me.”

“Is this the typical ‘Emma needs a date that likes food and drinking and looks good on her arm’ kind of accompaniment?”

“No, like, as my actual date.” The enormity of what she’s asking finally sinks through the post-sex fog in his brain, as far as she can tell, and she’s glad she has the last of the beer to keep her heart from beating right out of her chest while she awaits his answer.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you out?”

“Should’ve known you’d be old fashioned about this. What are you, three hundred? Would you like me to go find a fan and send you signals of my desires depending on how fast I’m moving the damn thing?”

“I wouldn’t be averse to that, you know. But I’ll happily except, on one condition. You let me cook dinner for you next week.”

“We eat dinner all the time!”

“Yes, but usually it’s leftovers, or something quick that we’ve made together, or I’m testing menu choices out on you. I want to this to be something just for you.”

“I’d make some joke about not putting out on the first date but uh,” Emma glances down their bodies when she finishes speaking, indicating their still nude state, and Killian’s tongue plays at the corner of his mouth in amusement. He looks like he’s about to swoop in for another kiss, and Emma quickly plants her hand on his chest. “Hey wait. When did the new chef even get here? Don’t you usually put prospective chefs through the wringer before you let them start getting acquainted with your kitchen?”

“That I do, but Regina brought her in this morning when I opened. She waltzed in, nearly charmed the pants off Will right as he walked in the door, all while effortlessly making chocolate caramel peanut bombs and chocolate blooming flowers while answering every question I threw at her. That was it. That’s all I needed.” He shimmies his way under the sheets with her, pulling her close to settle against his shoulder.

“And are you worried that Will might put his foot in it?”

“He has to remember how to do things like talk and walk without tripping over his own feet. If that ever happens then I might worry, but for now and at least several more weeks, we’re safe.”

She hums in agreement, knowing full well how Will operates around woman, namely that he doesn’t. It’s only the ones he’s truly fond of that cause this anomaly, though.

“I have a question for you, Swan.”

Another hum, this time to indicate for him to ask even though her eyes are drifting shut and she can feel sleep calling her name.

“I’m going to make you dinner, I’ll go with you as your date to the event in October, we’re sleeping together, but what do we call all of this?”

One last hum, one that speaks of uncertainty and amusement, her smile staying put as she drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is proof that the muses have more control over where the story goes than I do, because this is not at all what I had planned for this chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

“What do you suppose we should tell our friends?” The words are muffled against her thigh. Emma showed up an hour before dinner would be even close to ready, and with just minutes to go now, they are getting closer to breaking their “no sex until after the dinner” rule. It’s said against her skin because that’s where he’s leaving love bites, his knees aching from the tile in his kitchen, her hands messing up his hair. The carefully tousled look he spent a whole five minutes giving to it earlier is beyond ruined at this point.

“Why do we have to tell them anything?” He watches as she shifts to grip the counter behind her, her knuckles turn white.

“Maybe it’s because,” he starts, but then his tongue runs along one of the side seams on her panties, and instead he takes great pleasure in the way her knees wobble and she sighs above him. “Maybe it’s because I like kissing you and wouldn’t mind doing it in public someday,” he finishes, once he’s leaned back and temporarily let the skirt of her dress fall back to its rightful position.

He has every intention of seeing that dress on his bedroom floor in a couple hours, but he would like to actually treat her to dinner before it happens. He’s already set the dining room table, and as much as he loves their recently implemented dress code of underwear or less, he’s rather fond of the way this dress looks on her, and the way her arms are exposed by the sleeveless cut, the way her calves peek from beneath the bottom hem. He runs a hand up each of them, now.

The bloody woman would look stunning in a potato sack, so to see her in the pale pink dress that falls down to her knees is nothing short of breathtaking. The V that dips down the front is echoed in the back, and from the moment she walked in with it softly swishing about her legs, he’s not had a steady heartbeat. It spends most of the time fluttering out of control, or plummeting to his feet when she laughs at something he’s said, or crawling into his throat as he dropped to his knees in front of her five minutes ago.

His fingers dip down to trail across the T strap on her heels as he fully settles back on his haunches. Her eyes open, possibly sensing that he’s moved further away, and one of her hands uncurls from the counter to reach for him. He places his hand in hers, shifting back to his feet until he’s nose to nose with her. The heels add height, and he likes having her at this level just as much as when she’s at her normal height.

One brush of his nose against hers and he tilts his head to the side, brushing his lips over hers just enough to make her slide her hands back into his hair. He pushes against her, breaking away and cursing when he lines up perfectly with her, when she shifts and wraps one leg over his hip to urge him closer. He wants to hike up the skirt of the dress, wants to lower the dark jeans he’s wearing just enough to be able to slide into her. His hand is easing up the outside of her thigh when he catches the scent of their food in the oven.

“Dinner’s just about ready,” he manages to wheeze out, just as her lips connect with the spot between jaw and ear.

“You should probably get to that then.” She nips his earlobe once and drops her foot back to the floor, her heel clicking distinctly on the tile beneath it. She leans back and gives him a look, her eyebrows raising once in expectation, and all he can do is sigh. He gives her a look in return, one to let her know that this isn’t over, that they’ll resume as soon as they’ve been properly nourished, that her pretty pink dress will still end up wrinkled on his bedroom floor.

“I always knew there was a little pirate in you, Swan,” he grumbles as he turns toward the oven as he tries his best to redirect his attention to the task at hand. He looks over his shoulder when he gets the roasting pan out of the oven, and she’s still leaning against the counter, smirk on her lips and lust in her eyes.

They _somehow_ make it through dinner, even though with every new bite, Emma moans around her fork, her finger dragging through the tomato aioli left on her plate and wrapping her lips around the digit.

By the time they’re done with dessert, they’ve managed to have an incredible dinner and remain fully clothed through the whole event, which is a spectacular record for them at this point. At his special request, she even keeps the dress on as she moves above him, the skirt of the dress tickling his thighs and abdomen until he balls the fabric in his fists and they start to move in earnest.

He doesn’t bring up the subject of them telling anyone else right away, wanting to perhaps save that conversation for another night if it’s going to rock the boat in any way, but she beats him to it as their skin is cooling and her fingers are spending their time combing lightly through the hair on his chest.

“We’ll tell them. Just, be patient. Okay? Because if we tell anyone, there will probably be an exchange of money from bets, or they’re going to ask us a thousand questions. Plus, I want to put off David giving you his overprotective-dad speech for as long as possible.”

“How is it I’ve known him longer and _I’m_ still the one that’s going to get lectured here?”

“I don’t know. Because I think if anyone deserves to be asked about their intentions in this,” and she pauses, lifting her hand from his chest to wave it around in an attempt to capture the correct word, “thing, it’s probably me.”

“This _thing_ , hmm? Wonderful label you’ve given us. Now then, Swan, just what are your intentions?” He rolls his shoulder a little to coerce her to look at him, and she shifts enough so that their eyes meet. He sees the uncertainty there, beneath every other expression he’s used to seeing in her eyes. This is definitely uncharted territory for them, both staunchly against relationships after the disasters they’ve both had in their lives, and here they are doing whatever it is they’re doing. He gives her a smile, winking at her in the low glow of his bedside lamp, and has the pleasure of watching some of the unease drop away.

He’s expecting her to laugh it off, to joke her way out of the tense emotions they’ve been edging around lately with the solidification of whatever it is they are. Instead, her voice comes out much more soft and serious when she does speak.

“My intentions are to make you happy.”

“Then we’re on the same exact page, love.”

-x-

Time speeds up until it slams to a halt when the tourist season finally ends. When they’re finally able to breathe again, that’s when the fun really begins.

He’s not quite sure why he’s surprised that everything is going as well as it is. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been in situations that have been perfect on the surface but end up shattering before his eyes, but this time around, there’s no breaking.

Emma may have been on to something by suggesting they not tell anyone. They don’t really have to change any of their behaviors when they’re out with their friends. He holds her hand beneath the table, sometimes, and sometimes she purposely lingers in hallways leading to bathrooms so she can give him a kiss. But otherwise, no one looks twice when she loops her arm through his, or if he throws his arm over her shoulders. Since the moment they were comfortable with that level of contact, they’ve always done it, so no one has reason to question.

Their lives in private are much like they’ve been, as well: movie nights, sleepovers, dinners of every kind. If either of them thought that putting a title on what they’re doing would derail the comfort levels they’d both established, they were incredibly wrong. Emma bringing her fears to the forefront of their encounters definitely put it into perspective for Killian, and he’s happy to quiet her worries whenever she expresses them.

When Emma does meet Belle, they get along as well as he expected them to. Belle is working on new specials for an event they’ll have in December when Emma comes to visit, her eyes lighting up when she sees the swans made of heavy cream icing perched on a lake of blue sugar.

Killian pays close attention to her exuberance over the concoctions, and when Emma leaves that night, he knows exactly what he wants to do. By the time the kitchen is clean and he and Belle leave for the night, they have standing appointments for her to teach him how to make the swans. He keeps this to himself when he goes to her place that night, but still gives her an enthusiastic kiss in his excitement when he shows up. Once she’s packed for the weekend and her alarms are set, they crawl into her bed and she curls against his side until she falls asleep.

Since Emma is gone for the weekend, Killian spends extra time in the kitchen with Belle learning how to make the swans. It takes more patience than he’s ever had before. Sugary sculpted creations were always his downfall. He spent most of his culinary education doing his best to make his instructors happy, but mostly he struggled through it all. When his pastry chef started going rogue and he had to pull the weight of that position at the country club, it was especially exhausting for him.

Now, with Belle, he finds that she’s the missing cog he never knew he needed in his kitchen staff. Not only is she a genius when it comes to new and exciting desserts, she’s familiar with every part of the kitchen. It makes her valuable when others need a day off, or someone calls out sick. She can fill any station he appoints her to while also maintaining her own. All of that, and he’s also never met someone as good at keeping Will Scarlet on his bloody toes as she is.

By the end of his Sunday shift, he’s got a few attempts of the swans under his belt, and they don’t resemble the sad blobs with beaks anymore. Belle reminds him that he’ll get the hang of it before it’s time to decorate Emma’s birthday cake the following month, but as he scrapes the test shapes back into a container to practice with later, he’s a little doubtful.

Emma gets back from Boston just as Killian is finishing up puttering around the kitchen and double checking his cleaning list. She calls out her greeting, and he hears her voice fade away as she heads further into the dining area of the country club. She’s in civilian clothes when she comes downstairs, her uniform already stashed away in her car to be washed, and she makes a direct line for him when she spots him. The hug she gives him almost knocks him back a little, and while he’s happy to see such affection from her, there’s a tension just beneath her surface that wasn’t there when she left.

“Swan? Everything all right?”

She rests her forehead against his clavicle, sighing out just once before lifting her head to look at him.

“Everything’s fine,” she tells him. “It was just a long weekend, that’s all.”

He’s not quite sure she’s telling the whole truth, but he figures if she’s not talking about it, there’s a good reason behind it. A lot of the army talk goes right over his head, most days, and he knows that there’s information that she deals with through her position that’s under a security clearance. For those reasons, he lets it go, instead choosing to wrap her in his embrace again and hold her close.

They’re quiet for the length of a few heartbeats, but he can still feel her restless movements. When her lips brush against his neck the first time, he feels the surge of want push through him. They’ve gone an entire week without sex in some cases, so a few days away from each other is barely a drop in the pond of where they were before this all began, but he’ll be damned if he ever stops wanting her as much as he does every single time he sees her, or hears her voice, or thinks about her.

She meets him halfway when he tilts his head down to kiss her, lips hungry and wanting as soon as they touch hers. Her hands shift to his hips, walking him backwards, and it’s only as her fingers slip beneath his coat and tug at the drawstring on his pants that he realizes her intentions.

He breaks away, spins her around and starts walking her towards the stairs before she can protest. “Not in the kitchen, love. I will happily fuck you in either of _our_ kitchens, but this one is considered a health violation.” He stops at the bottom of the stairs and flicks off the lights, pinching her ass for good measure as she begins her trek up the short flight.

Their laughter bounces off the small passageway, joined with Emma’s squawk of protest when Killian catches the hem of her shirt when they reach the top. She falls back against him easily, though, back into his arms where he can draw pictures over her clothed stomach as he places light kisses along the side of her neck.

They stumble their way through the restaurant’s dining area, making their way to the halfway house bar on the back of the club. While it’s usually home to golfers in need of a pit stop, tonight it’ll serve a much different function. He closes the door behind them, separating from Emma for only a moment to hit a series of buttons along the wall near the bar, and the glass garage doors lining the wall all start raising up.

Emma stops and stares at the view in awe, the cool autumn breeze that’s just started blowing through ruffling the loose pieces of hair falling out of her bun.

Approaching her, Killian eases his arms around her waist again. He hugs her tight, looking out and seeing the lights reflecting off the lake in the distance, but more tuned in to the rise and fall of her chest, the way she leans back against his shoulder and rests her arms over his. While whatever she’s not telling him about is still weighing on her mind, she’s calmer now, relaxing against him and with him, and he’s never been so grateful for his position in her life.

One day, when the time is right, he will tell her he loves her in this very spot. Just like the homemade vinegar he’s begun to make, it’s just going to take a little more time.

-x-

“I’m starting to get worried about you, _mate_ ,” David comments when Killian meets him for dinner in the middle of October. There’s a large plate of fried food between them, their individual burgers just waiting to be consumed, and beer not far from reach.

Mary Margaret is with Emma, the two of them on a day trip down to Boston so Emma can find a dress for the dining out. And despite the fact that David has yet to officially pop the question to Mary Margaret, Killian is fairly sure that the girls are also using the outing as an excuse to look at dresses for her, as well.

“And why would you be worried, _mate_?” To his knowledge, he’s not done anything out of the ordinary around any of his friends. He’s maintained his normal social life while spending a reasonable amount of time with Emma, but again, this is nothing considered out of the ordinary from how they usually spent their time.

“You’ve been in the best mood I’ve seen you in, maybe ever, and it’s without random hookups from what I can tell. You usually brag about those. So what is it? Have you ingested some kind of poison that’s permanently put you in your happy place? Been body snatched recently?”

“Neither, thank you. And I have just decided that a positive outlook on life will get me farther than being a sourpuss like you.” When David goes to steal an onion ring, Killian flicks his hand away, and transfers as many as he can to his plate. He knows it’s only a matter of time before Emma and Mary Margaret return, and they already know where he and Dave will be holed up until then.

Deciding that it’s better to redirect the conversation instead of possibly lie his way to an early grave, he asks the question he knows Emma has been dying to ask her surrogate brother. “Speaking of positive outlooks, when are you looking to ask Mary Margaret a very important question?”

Watching David’s demeanor change into something fidgety and nervous tells Killian that it’s soon, and rightly so. The man’s had the ring for months now, hemming and hawing over when to actually ask the woman who is very clearly his soulmate to be his wife.

“I think next weekend. She’s terrible with secrets, as you well know, so I’m sure you’ll hear about it right around the time I’m in the middle of asking her.” As if realizing that what he’s just described is a distinct possibility, the normally composed sheriff rubs a hand over his face. “I just want it to be perfect. Just like she is.”

“You could hand her the bloody thing with a charming smile and she would still describe it like something out of a storybook when she tells it.”

The words are just out of his mouth when he hears the chiming laughter of the woman in question. Emma is close behind her, the smug smile of a well-told joke showing on her lips and in her eyes. From across the room, she sees him, her smile transforming to something softer and more affectionate. He returns the look before schooling his features back to his normal expression, feigning a carefree attitude and equally free-spirited smile.

“Remember that time you punched me in the nose because you thought I was hitting on your girlfriend?” Killian asks to change the subject as Mary Margaret and Emma slide into the booth they’re occupying. Mary Margaret immediately leans in to give David a kiss on the cheek in greeting and Killian resists the urge to do the same to Emma. As if sensing his desire for some form of contact in greeting, she slides her hand across the small space between them and lightly scratches the fabric over his knee.

It's enough. It’s more than enough, in reality, especially with the impending proposal of the two across the table.

“He’s always had a bit of a hero complex, this one,” Mary Margaret says fondly.

Changing gears all together, David levels Killian with a look before turning his attention to Emma. “What are the plans for your birthday? The big three oh deserves something a little more special than keg stands and jello shots, if you ask me.”

At the mention of both, Emma blanches. “No. Definitely none of that this year.”

“I have a thought,” Killian injects, his hand raised as if he’s a student in the classroom. He’s been thinking of this for some time and the timing all works out perfectly. “We’re doing full shut-down next week while Regina is on her honeymoon, and to deep clean for the official start of the off-season.” He glances at Emma to see her expression at the idea, and she raises an eyebrow back at him.

“Does that mean we would have the full country club to ourselves? Will Regina get mad at you if David breaks into the wine room?”

“Hey!”

“We will have it all to ourselves. Regina won’t care even if he breaks in and even drinks all the wine. She’s too busy getting ready for the wedding, and then she’ll be too busy being sickeningly happy. Just let me know how many to expect and I can take care of the rest. Obviously, I have no qualms catering the small soiree to your specifications, love.”

He’s absolutely shocked when she reaches with both hands to pull his face towards her, but he laughs when she plants a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek.

“You’re an absolute peach sometimes, Jones.” After she says this, she notices the pile of onion rings he’s saved for her and she happily turns the plate for easier access to them.

“Just as long as we don’t repeat that moment from two years ago where you threw up all the food I slaved over because you took too many tequila shots in a row.”

“Agreed,” the other three chorus.

-x-

For the last four years, Killian has had some hand in planning Emma’s birthday parties, even if it was just to start the text tree to get everyone to the bar like the year before. For this one, it’s the classiest they’ve ever gone. Mary Margaret takes over calling the list of people that she and Emma composed after their dress shopping adventure, setting the party date for Saturday evening at the temporarily-closed club.

After hours of practicing, Killian has finally gotten the icing swans to resemble their namesake, and so the ones that he pipes onto the top of her cake are finally up to the standards of something he can give to her. It’s all worth it when he brings the cake up after dinner, the two birds artfully posed on pools of blue icing around the flawless script of “Happy Birthday, Swan!” in his own flowing handwriting.

“Did you make them?” she asks breathlessly, knowing his disposition about confection creations and his lack of natural talent in that area.

“Aye, Belle spent most of the last month teaching me.”

The look on her face says everything. _Later_ , her eyes tell him, and he knows she means it.

Still, she sneaks down to the kitchen when everyone else is distracted with eating their cake so she can lock her arms around his neck and kiss him senseless. He’s pretty sure he has her lipstick on his lips, and across his cheek as her lips travel there, and over to his ear.

“Question,” she says when she pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, and sure enough, she rubs her thumb over his cheek to wipe away the light smudge left behind. “Have you ever gotten lucky in the wine room?”

“Swan, this may come as a surprise, seeing as I dated my sous chef back in the day, but I’ve never had any sexual relations on this property until you.”

“Do you wanna have sex in the wine room after everyone leaves?”

Instead of giving her an answer, he leans forward to kiss her again, making sure there’s equal parts sweet and spicy in the movements of his lips, his tongue, his hands as they roam from her sides down to her lower back to pull her tight against him. He’s just noticing that he doesn’t feel any lines from underwear under the tight pink dress when the sound of Ruby’s heels on the server’s steps alerts them of her arrival. Thankfully, she always seems to have a distinct warning signal.

With deer in headlight eyes, Emma reaches up and tries to put Killian’s hair back in some sort of order before she kisses him once more, quickly.

“To be continued,” she tells him, before quietly sprinting for the back stairs.

A moment later, Ruby appears in the kitchen, looking a little surprised that Killian is alone and seemingly doing dishes. He keeps close to the sink to hide the effects of Emma’s earlier suggestion and keeps scrubbing.

“Is Emma down here?”

“She just went back up. I think on her way to the restrooms.”

She looks at Killian closely for a second, and he prays all of the lipstick is off his face, before nodding and turning to go back up.

“Love the cake,” she comments before disappearing again.

He lets out a deep breath as soon as her heels clack out of hearing range, before getting to the last few dishes for the moment.

The rest of the evening goes by quickly, with Killian making stops down to the kitchen to clean up every so often. Their friends all know him well enough that this is nothing out of the ordinary to them. He makes sure he’s upstairs when everybody leaves, though. Everyone, that is, except for Emma.

The birthday girl has consumed just enough wine to be carefree and smiling, and he makes sure to kiss that smirk in between collecting dishes and glasses from the tables in the small banquet room they used.

“Ruby asked me like ten times if I wanted a ride home. She’s staying at Granny’s tonight since Mulan couldn’t come up. I _think_ she might’ve been fishing for something, but I just told her I wanted to keep you company while you cleaned up.”

“She’s quite the perceptive one. I wouldn’t be surprised if she sniffed it out with those wolf-life senses of hers.”

Emma makes a noise of agreement from her chair. Her bare feet are kicked up onto another of the cushy chairs, and while she looks relaxed, it doesn’t stop her from easily rising when he’s about to pass so she can kiss him again.

“Thank you again, Killian. For the dinner, and the cake, and everything tonight.”

“My pleasure, love. The kitchen is already cleaned. I just need to get these all downstairs, and I can take care of the rest before the crew gets here tomorrow.”

“What time do you have to get started?” She’s looking at the antique clock on the wall, already trying to calculate how many hours of sleep he’ll get, and he loves her even more for it.

“They’ll probably trickle in around two o’clock. We have all week.”

When he comes back up from taking the last of the glasses to the dishwashing station, Emma is standing in the darkened doorway of the wine room.

While typically it has a table and chairs large enough for the party they had tonight, it currently only houses the table and walls of wine. The chairs have already been moved to the large banquet room for cleaning.

Her dress ends up on the doorknob and Killian is pleasantly unsurprised when it turns out she’s not wearing a single stitch under it.

He notices again, as she sits on the edge of the table and he stands between her splayed legs, that she holds on a little tighter. It’s something that’s been happening a lot over the last month, but he chalks it up to a possibility of burgeoning feelings, to him not being alone in how he feels about her. That she might just love him, too.

The early get-together with an adult-like atmosphere means they get back to his place just after midnight, where Emma pins him beneath her on the couch and he whispers “Happy Birthday” as he thrusts up into her.

-x-

Normally, after a deep-clean week, Killian is anxious to get back into his kitchen. With the winter menu prepared and ready to launch with their reduced hours come the first of November, there’s something about that week that he cherishes as he and the kitchen staff move around each other. But that first day back, and the last Monday of the season, just happens to be right after this dinner thing that he’s going to with Emma.

He plans to ask her to stay the night on Sunday once she’s done with drill, a night where they can relax, enjoy the city a little bit. Maybe he’ll get to hold her hand in public for once and breathe easy as he does, without the paranoia of one of their friends driving past and witnessing it and making a public showing of it. In order to make any of this possible, though, he needs to get Will to agree to head the kitchen staff that day.

As Killian’s sous chef, Will easily takes over when Killian has a day off, or in the instance that he has to call or request off. They primarily work on a system of favors, trading one day for another, keeping the hours as equal as possible so neither of them feels overburdened by the end of any given week. This time, however, there are no available days for them to switch out. This would be Killian asking his second in command to shoulder an extra day and lose his day off for a week.

He coerces Will over on Wednesday during the deep-clean week with the promise of beers and action movies, and a late arrival time the next day if he so chooses, and Will comes over, despite fully realizing that Killian is about to ask him a favor.

“You’re goin’ to ask me somethin’ I don’t want to do, I can already feel it,” Will says as soon as he walks in the door. And he’s right, because he balks as soon as Killian asks him to take the extra shift.

“Listen, mate, you’ll get overtime for it,” Killian says as soothingly as possible.

“Still not good enough a reason to lose a day off.”

“All you’re planning to do is drink and watch television, I’m willing to bet.”

Will pauses, takes a sip of his beer, and grimaces. “So you’re right about that. But puttin’ me in charge of all the worker bees doesn’t sound like a good use of my time.”

Killian resists the urge to tear his hair out, trying to think of any other way to convince this man to help him without telling him _why_ he needs the help and time off. And suddenly it hits him.

“Belle will be your second for the day, if you do this. An entire shift with her by your side where you just might possibly not make too much of an arse out of yourself.”

That gets the wheels turning, and Killian can already hear the yes coming out of Will’s mouth before it does.

“Bollocks. Fine, I’ll do it. But you still owe me somethin’ nice for this one.”

“Bottle of liquor of your choice?”

“Now that’s right up me alley. It’s a deal.”

They’re halfway through the movie when Will snorts after finishing off the bottle in his hand. “Y’know, this method of negotiating is much nicer than the one where you threatened to punch me.”

“Aye, well, Robin deserves the thanks for that. Remember to do something nice for him when he gets back from his honeymoon.”

-x-

The clean-up of the club wraps up on Friday afternoon. After every dish is put away, every chair pushed back in place, every napkin folded and stored, he gives the rest of the staff the rest of the day off, along with the next day. They’ll be back on Sunday to start stocking various products again, but Will still reacts as if Christmas has come early when Killian releases them all.

Since Emma’s already in Boston for her drill weekend, he spends the night packing up his smaller bag for the weekend trip down to the city and making sure everything is ready to go with his suit for the following night.

Waiting for the bus from Storybrooke to Boston is something akin to torture, and the trip down even more so. There’s no use taking two vehicles when they’ll both be coming back to the same place at the end of the weekend, so Killian kicks back and tries to relax on the trip down as much as he can. He knows that Emma is already back in the room getting ready, and he can hardly wait to see what she ends up wearing. He’s seen her in plenty of dresses, but the formal event is something entirely different than the whimsical dress she wore for their date, or the dress-to-kill she wore last weekend for her birthday dinner.

Just before arriving at the hotel, Killian gets a text from Emma saying that she’s just gotten out of the shower and that he should grab a drink from the hotel bar if he wants one. It’ll be a bit until dinner, but he made sure to eat a healthy lunch in preparation for any amount of drinking he did tonight. With that in mind, he heads straight to the bar with his carryon slung over his shoulder and his garment bag draped over his arm. He acquires a rum and coke before wandering through the ornate hallways to find the elevators.

He’s whisked up to the sixth floor, and follows the signs to get to the room number Emma texted him. Three short knocks and he can hear Emma swear on the other side.

“One minute, Jones!”

The drink in his hand is halfway to his lips when she swings open the door, breathless, and unbelievably radiant. Her makeup is all precisely applied, the glow to her cheeks making it look as if the very sun is shining down on her. There are portions of her hair that still need curled, but the majority of it is already thickly spiraled, seemingly glimmering even in the dim light of the hallway. She’s only wearing a shirt he recognizes as his own, and _bloody hell_ …

If this is the way just her hair and makeup looks, he already knows it’ll be a challenge to not stare at her all through the evening. And he hasn’t even seen the dress yet.  She smiles brightly at him, even though she looks like she barely slept the night before.

“You think this is good? Just wait.” She snags the drink from his hand and steals a sip before crooking her finger to beckon him into the room.


	8. Chapter 8

There are few things Emma hates more than rumors. Rumors followed her through school as kids pointed and laughed at the orphan no one wanted. Rumors tracked her around after her foster mother’s husband left her for another woman, thus preventing her from getting adopted. Rumors are what Walsh used against her in the unit, spreading them to the soldiers in his detachment and claiming that there were pictures to back up the wildly inflated stories.

The rumors she starts to hear in September are her least favorite kind. But between her birthday and the preparation of the dining out, she’s able to push the rumors out of mind. It’s pretty amazing how much beautiful handmade icing swans and sex in the wine room can eclipse everything else.

Getting back to the hotel room after the first day of drill in October, she starts ripping off her uniform before the door is even fully closed. She doesn’t have a lot of time to transition from solider to evening wear, so she needs to make every single minute count, especially when Killian’s bus is due to arrive in the next couple minutes.

After getting a majority of the hairpins out, Emma pulls the elastics holding her hair in place, upending her head and shaking her hair loose to let the rest of the wayward pins drop to the floor. She’ll clean them all up later; right now she’s too busy sprinting over to the shower and hopping in as soon as the water is warm enough.

She dries her hair after, opting to throw on a shirt she stole from Killian in lieu of a robe. It’s hard to rush something that needs precision, so she takes the most time post-shower applying her make-up. It all has a purpose; every single brush stroke or swipe of mascara has a part in the grand scheme of her final look.

It’s all to knock Killian off balance. How she dressed for her birthday was something he’s seen before. Heavy on the make-up, tight on the dress, high on the heels. Their date was another version of her dressed up state, with soft make-up and simple dress, elegant but wistful. This one, well. This one is in a whole different league.

Her dress is a spring green, sleeveless with gold embellishments along the edges on the top half of the dress. She already knows he’ll appreciate the cutouts between her breasts, but that he’ll hate the light mesh that will keep his fingers from touching the skin between each perfect little square. The entire back of the dress is exposed, and it zips up to her hips and clasps at the top, and otherwise leaves her bare.

True, when she and Mary Margaret had gone dress shopping, they’d been gone most of the afternoon. But this was only the third dress she tried on in the first store. All they had to do was see it on and the decision was made. She was practically paying for it before she even changed out of it.

The final touches of her make-up go into place, her features all enhanced but by no means hidden behind the powders and liquids, and she moves on to curling her hair. She thinks of Mary Margaret as she does, of the adorable expression on her face when they’d walked past a wedding boutique and Emma decided to drag her into it.

“When do you think he’ll ask?” Mary Margaret had asked her from atop the pedestal in a dress that made her look like a modern day Snow White.

“I don’t know, but he’s an idiot if he doesn’t do it soon,” she’d told her. Mary Margaret had looked like she wanted to ask another question, especially considering the dress in a garment bag sitting next to Emma, but she closed her mouth again without asking and smiled at her.

With a few more sections left to curl, she hears a knock at the door and knows it’s Killian. She swears under her breath and mentally tries to hurry the section of hair into curling. “One minute, Jones!” She finally removes the curling iron, revealing a perfect large spiral, and gives herself one more private smile before going to open the door.

Killian’s still in jeans, his shoes looking like they’ve seen some better days, but he has his garment bag draped over one arm and a drink in the opposite hand. A drink that, when she opened the door, he’d been intending on taking a sip from, but his eyes are too busy taking in the various differences to how he’s used to seeing her at this point.

She’s aware there are still circles beneath her eyes; she can’t hide all her flaws, but he still looks at her as if he’s won the lottery.

“You think this is good? Just wait.” She grabs his drink, taking a healthy sip of it and motioning him inside. “I’m almost done in the bathroom if you need in there,” she tells him, moving back to finish her hair. She wants him to be surprised, so she still has the dress inside its bag in the closet.

“Aye, shouldn’t take me long. Question, vest or no vest with my suit tonight?”

“Is that even a real question? Don’t be ridiculous. Vest. The answer is always vest,” she urges, giving him a glance out of the corner of her eye to see him smirking in the bathroom doorway. She shoos him away, turning back to her work with her hair with attention undivided.

When she finishes the last curl, she unplugs the iron and gets to work adding in loose braids along the front to hold her hair back. When the pins are in place, she exits the bathroom and finds Killian now half-dressed, his suit pants and undershirt in place, lounging in the arm chair in the corner. He stands and takes another sip when he sees her. A tap to the side of the glass is his silent indicator that the rest of it is hers. He picks up the hanger with his shirt and vest on it, and comes toe to toe with her.

“In case I can’t form the words to say it when I get out, you look absolutely stunning, Emma.” He punctuates this with a kiss to her temple so he doesn’t smudge her makeup, and a light swipe of his thumb along her jaw.

If she was one to swoon, she would feel faint after that. But then he’s moving away and the bathroom door clicks shut, and she gets back to work.

Emma hurries to pick up her uniform and lay it out for the morning. She tidies up her stuff before moving quietly to the closet and extracting the dress. She puts on the appropriate underwear, sighing at the loss of the comfy ones she was just wearing, but knowing the total package will be worth it. She carefully steps into the dress, zipping up the bottom and slipping on her heels before peeling off Killian’s shirt. She secures the straps of the dress behind her neck and hustles to tidy up the rest of the room, leaving Killian’s overnight bag on the arm chair and her uniform parts and pieces meticulously folded on the desk.

She has just a minute to nervously smooth out imaginary wrinkles on the dress and fiddle with her hair before the door opens and Killian walks out of the bathroom, followed by the heavenly smell of his cologne.

His stride is steady while he fiddles with the cufflinks at his wrists; they’re the ones that depict the breakdown of a pig, which she got him last Christmas, and she’s absolutely thrilled to see them. And then he lifts his head and sees her standing there, in the middle of the room, and he stops in his tracks while his jaw drops.

While he’s taking in the full picture of her, Emma returns the favor with him. His hair is styled into place, and she notices that he must’ve cleaned up his scruff at some point. The cufflinks are in place on the cuffs of his red shirt. His suit is slate gray, the vest pitch black, and the tie he’s _actually_ wearing for once instead of leaving the top buttons open is another cooking themed gift: a gray background with crossed whisks printed on it.

“You can take the chef out of the kitchen,” she murmurs, and he blinks out of his own stupor at her words. It still looks like it takes him a minute to get his mouth in order.

“Swan, you look – “

“I know,” she says, grinning and walking over to him. The heels give her leverage to easily kiss his cheek, and then she’s tugging him towards the door. “Come on, the receiving line might be over but that’s okay. That’s just a lot of shaking hands and me endlessly introducing you to people that you’ll forget the names of after two seconds.”

He doesn’t notice the back of the dress until they’re already in the elevator on the way down to the ballroom, and then his hand goes to the spot right above the zipper and she hears his sharp intake of breath. Leaning back, he carefully lifts her hair to scope out the cut of the dress and he lets it gently rest in place again when he looks at her again. “Big fan of this dress,” he tells her, a conspiratorial wink making an appearance before the elevator doors slide open.

They grab more drinks from the bar before making their way into the ballroom where dinner will be served. They’re stopped every five seconds to talk to someone new, and Emma can already tell Killian’s head is spinning from introductions, especially when he primarily knows people by their last names.

In the ballroom, there’s a sea of dress blues and other formal wear, something new to catch the eye at every turn. She scopes out each of the tables, choosing one off to the side and back so they won’t be right next to the dance floor. It’s roughly halfway between the bar and the dessert table, which seems like a win to Emma.

Killian gets distracted by a raffle in the back, and wanders to go check it out while Emma slowly alternates sipping from her drink and her water glass. She’s alone for mere seconds, when the forgotten flaw in her plan appears over her shoulder.

“Well, well, well,” comes a low voice in her ear, and Emma about jumps out of her skin. “If it isn’t the Swan and the pirate. You two sure clean up nice.”

“Ruby, don’t sneak up on people like that. I _have_ broken someone’s nose before. You _know_ this.”

Ruby just snickers, dropping into the chair next to her and squeezing Emma’s hand in a companionable way.

“So you dragged Killian to this thing, huh?”

“Well, I don’t know if I would call it dragging. He’s looking forward to the food more than anything. And besides, you’re here. Were you forced into it?”

“No, but I’m also _sleeping_ with my date.” She gives Emma a significant look at this.

_Shit_.

Here it goes.

“So,” Emma starts, but then Killian is approaching the table again and the mingling music has cut out to signal that dinner is about to begin. With another look, Ruby rises from the chair and over one table to where Mulan, dressed to the nines in her dress blues, is just getting back with their drinks. Emma nods to Mulan in greeting, having spent the better portion of her day with the other woman, and turns to see a look of mischief in Killian’s eyes.

“The one basket includes a fantastic variety of wine and I may have just purchased twenty tickets and put them all in that basket,” he tells her with a cheeky grin as soon as he’s seated. He raises his hand to wave at Ruby and Mulan. “How did I _not_ think that they would be here,” he whispers as he leans close.

The tickle of his breath against her neck has her shivering, and she resists the urge to turn to him. “Don’t worry, I did the same thing,” she grumbles in response.

Somewhere in the middle of the traditional army speeches and fanfare, Emma glances at Killian to see his reactions to it all, but she finds his eyes trained elsewhere; instead of paying attention to the First Sergeant, he’s looking at Ruby and Mulan, at their hands clasped and resting on Ruby’s thigh. The smile on his face is this dreamy thing that she’s pretty sure is the same one he got when he said he wanted to kiss her in public one day.

And that’s precisely when Emma thinks _fuck it_. She reaches out and grabs Killian’s hand, trying to communicate her meaning without saying a word, but if he doesn’t understand it yet, he will soon enough. He looks at their hands for a moment before looking up at her and smiling, seemingly far more at ease than he was a minute before.

As dinner gets under way, Emma discovers that one of the best things about eating a fancy dinner with a chef is that she gets running commentary on the food. She also discovers that the _worst_ thing about eating a fancy dinner with a chef is that she gets running commentary on the food.

She particularly enjoys when he leans over to wax poetic about the Dauphinoise potatoes, the sound of his voice pairing nicely with the cream as he explains the methods they must have used to get the dish so perfectly saturated in flavors. He passes on the simple cake they serve after, but sneaks a taste of the icing off Emma’s when he thinks she isn’t looking. So, when caught, he licks his finger slowly and winks.

They make the rounds when dinner is over, grabbing more drinks from the bar and pausing to talk to more members of the unit as Emma slowly angles them back towards the entrance of the ballroom. When they break free, Killian raises an eyebrow in question.

“My feet are killing me already. Heels were a bad idea,” she admits, grimacing as the elevator dings and arrives and they’re transported back up to their floor.

When the door shuts behind them, Killian pulls her close against him and whispers sweet filth about how she looks in her dress and the way she ate cake just a few minutes prior. Just as suddenly, he’s kissing her soundly one more time before excusing himself to the restroom.

It’s only when he’s moved away that she catches sight of herself in the mirror. Her first impression of her own appearance makes a hazy smile cross her lips. She has just the right amount of flush to her cheeks, and her eyes reflect the want that Killian has just sparked in her. It becomes blaringly obvious, however, that she’s not wearing a bra with the dress and everything else falls away as she focuses on that one detail.

“Should’ve brought pasties,” she mutters, looking in the mirror and hoping it’s not nearly as noticeable as she thinks it is. Behind her, Killian laughs loudly, and Emma’s trying to figure out exactly how much rum was in those rum and cokes. She turns to him with an eyebrow raised, clearly questioning what he thinks is so funny. “What?”

“I’m sorry, but what on _earth_ would you’ve done with pasties? Was dinner not adequate for you?” He’s looking at her as if she’s gone off the deep end.

“How did you get hungry from a possible wardrobe malfunction? What the hell do you think pasties are?”

“Well, they’re handpies, usually made with savory fillings. What the bloody hell do you think they are?”

Instead of even trying to explain, Emma pulls up a search on her phone and shows him. He looks at the phone, then at her chest, and the Cheshire grin spreads across his face once more.

“I hadn’t even noticed before now, just so you’re aware. But now I am very tuned in to what’s going on beneath that dress, Swan.”

“Hands off until we’re back in the room at the end of the night,” she warns him. If this weren’t an Army function, she wouldn’t care one bit about him getting a little handsy before they retire for the evening.

He nods in assent and holds out his arm for her. “Shall we return?”

The ballroom has almost transformed by the time they get back down there. The tables have been cleared of all the used plates and cutlery. A lot of the people there just for the meal and to make appearances have already filtered out, leaving behind the ones who have come to make a night of it.

Emma and Killian slide into the photo booth as soon as they can. She puts on a poofy characterization of a chef’s hat while he grabs an oversized foam cop hat. They do those for one picture, and fake mustaches held up on sticks for another one. They leave all the props on the bench behind them for the third frame and he catches her off guard when he turns her chin at the last second so he can touch his lips to hers. While it was probably meant to be a quick thing for the sake of the picture, it briefly morphs into a heated moment until the fourth flash knocks them out of it.

“We’ve become those disgusting fools we always made fun of,” Killian tells her as he nods his head towards the curtain to indicate that it’s time for them to exit. The attendant is thankfully turned away when their strips print out, and Emma snags them and puts them in her purse for later examination.

They’ve barely cleared the area where the photo booth is set up when Ruby approaches them, grabbing on to Killian’s arm and looking pleadingly between the two of them.

“Hey! You mind if I borrow this one for a minute? There’s a dance floor with our names on it, and I feel like showing off.”

Killian hangs his head in mock aggravation for just a second, before sliding his suit jacket off his shoulders. Next goes the tie, and the cufflinks, both of which are carefully handed over to Emma’s safe-keeping and she tucks them into her purse. He rolls up his sleeves as he follows Ruby out onto the floor and she watches as the two of them move effortlessly around each other and the other people.

If Emma thinks what he does in the kitchen is dancing, she’s not too far off the mark. The movements of his legs and feet are surprisingly graceful, much like his steps between work spaces in the kitchen. She has no idea what kind of dance they’re doing, but it’s something fast-paced and intricate, with Ruby spinning out away from him before he pulls her back in.

She watches as they chat while they dance, finding her contentment levels high at watching her friends dance, especially seeing Ruby’s lips moving and Killian’s laughing response. But “friends” feels far too limited now. They’re dating. They’re seeing each other. They’re…together. Is he her boyfriend? Is she his girlfriend? Why does she have a better grasp on the depth of her emotions than she does on what to call what they are?

The upbeat song comes to an end, and Killian dips Ruby to finish the dance, much to Ruby’s absolute delight. With the last notes, Ruby pinches his cheek and wanders off and into Mulan’s arms again. Killian walks over to where Emma is sitting and sipping her drink, holding out his hand in invitation as a much slower song comes on.

She lets herself be pulled to her feet and into his arms. Rather than anything fancy, he just draws her close and they sway to the slow music, her hands linked behind his neck while his stay innocently placed on her waist.

“You cook, you clean, you dance. Any other special talents I should know about that you haven’t bothered to share in the last four and a half years?”

“I play a mean kazoo. I can speak fluent French if I’m just listing off various types of food,” he says, laughing quietly along with her. “I took sailing lessons from the time I turned fifteen until I moved to the US, and I miss it more than I can properly express sometimes.”

Somehow, Emma forgets that there are still parts of Killian that she doesn’t know, despite the length of their friendship and closeness. It took a solid year of hanging out and a lot of alcohol one night for them to share the worst of their past wounds. Some things they’ve just never gotten around to, or forgotten about in place of interrupting each other to tell other parts of their lives.

As each bit of information comes out, she’s surprised she didn’t fall for him sooner.

During the next slow song, he starts easing her through some actual steps. He grabs one of her hands, repositioning the other on his shoulder and rubbing his thumb along her palm as he does. “There’s only one rule when learning,” he says softly as he guides them through the steps. “Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.” He smiles in encouragement as he places one hand on her back, his palm warm and welcome on the bare skin there.

They dance for song after song, fast and slow, dancing with the soldiers Killian just met but that she’s known for years, spinning around Ruby and Mulan and all the others. The dance floor is one cohesive unit of people enjoying themselves and each other, and Emma finds that her cheeks hurt from the amount of smiling she’s done.

After a particularly intense electric slide, Killian holds up his hands in defeat. “I need fresh air, Swan.”

“Follow me,” she says, grabbing his hand and quickly grabbing their stuff from the table. She leads the way out of the ballroom and down a hallway that leads to a side entrance, pushing out into the cool October air where autumn is making itself known more than ever. There’s a small group of people, men and women alike, huddling around in patches outside the doors. The smell of cigarette smoke stings her eyes momentarily, but a cool breeze whips it all a different way. Ruby slides out a moment later, followed by Mulan, and they both heave a sigh of relief from the cool air.

The relief only lasts a moment, though, and Killian quickly helps Emma into his jacket, leaving his arm around her waist as she settles into his side. Ruby moves a little closer, careful to not blow smoke in Emma’s face as she wraps a shawl around her shoulders. It’s probably handmade by Granny, the delicate lace all painstakingly detailed, a fact that the older woman is usually and rightfully proud of.

Neither of the women standing with them make mention of the close proximity Emma and Killian are sharing. They don’t make a fuss or a spectacle, and at one point, Emma tilts her head up to look at Killian as he explains the art of flipping an egg in a pan without breaking it to Ruby, his hand gesturing wildly while the other squeezes at her waist as if to signal that he sees her look while he’s still talking. As soon as he finishes speaking, he turns his head and kisses her nose without a second thought and she hears the response then, just a quiet half-laugh from Mulan.

Ruby, on the other hand, hisses a “Told you!” in celebration, flicking her cigarette away in favor of grabbing one of each of their cheeks and pinching once. “I was wondering when you two finally would! How long? Are you actually dating? Does everyone else know yet? Do you two realize how attractive of a couple you make?”

The intense line of questions is exactly why Emma wanted to avoid this kind of encounter, but she just smiles up at Killian, and he grins back at her before turning to Ruby.

“All you need to know, Miss Lucas, is that we’re happy and no one else knows. Now, if you two would excuse us, I believe it’s about to be last call and I would love nothing more than one more song with my beautiful dance partner before the evening ends.”

They part ways with the others, heading back to the ballroom one more time. They grab fresh drinks, and she can still feel the previous alcohol humming through her veins and can already tell that she’ll be hungover in the morning. It’ll be worth it, though.

That thought echoes through her head as he pulls her back into his arms when they’re back inside, after she’s placed her purse and his jacket back at the table they’d occupied all night, the fingers of one hand just grazing up and down her spine as he holds her hand to his chest. His thumb rests inside her palm while his fingers rest over the back of hers and it’s so intimate, so much more intimate than she’s used to. Her hand crawls up his back to rest on his shoulder, and she feels his cheek and chin press against her hair, can feel it when he takes a couple of the loose strands that fall in the front between his fingers and rubs them, rubs her fingers, the gentle contact so very soothing and tender.

Over his shoulder, she notices that Ruby and Mulan are also dancing again, their bodies close and their smiles sweet. Ruby sees her looking and smiles wider. She winks at Emma, giving a thumbs up behind Mulan’s back before returning her hand to her girlfriend’s waist.

Emma starts to feel the fluttering in her stomach, the matching pace in her chest, and it all feels a lot like incandescent happiness and that something else. That something else is too early for her to name it, so she skips over it and focuses on the soft warmth resting in her belly as the song finishes up and the DJ announces that it’s the official end.

The last of their drinks are mostly water, but they still sip them down and leave the glasses on the bar as they walk out. He’s slipped his jacket back on for the trip up to the room, but he looks disheveled and relaxed, now. They moved quickly to get out of the ballroom and over to the elevators, so they get one all to themselves as everyone else lingers or heads outside for one more smoke.

Killian leans against the back wall, and Emma leans against him, her back to his chest as she pushes the button for their floor and rests her head on his shoulder. His hands pull her back tighter against him, and she can feel the beginnings of his arousal, which stokes a fire in her.

“Jesus Christ, Killian.” She means it to sound stern, but it comes out closer to a moan. His hands come around her to cup her breasts, his forefingers and thumbs pinching her nipples with a laziness the rest of his demeanor reflects. Even though they’re alone in the elevator, and even though the doors have shut and they’re being whisked up to the room, Emma would still rather not run into any of her commanding officers in such a position.

As if sensing her hesitation, he moves his hands back down to her waist and gives a reassuring squeeze there. “Sorry, love. You have extremely communicative nipples and they’ve been trying to tell me hello since we started dancing. Had you not pointed out the lack of brassiere, I wouldn’t have even thought thrice about them.”

She’s torn between groaning and laughing, and opts instead to snort once before letting her head fall back to his shoulder. “That would mean you’ve thought about them twice now.”

“I’m only human, love,” he murmurs against her hair, giving that spot a quick kiss before the doors open and he motions her forward. “I was thinking,” he says, taking her hand in his, “that maybe you’d like to stay down here an extra night? That way we don’t have to drive back all hungover and sleep deprived?”

“That would be so perfect,” she sighs out as she fishes out the key and swipes them into the room. “But the Army only pays for the one night, and you have to work tomorrow. I don’t think I’m up to leaving that early to get back at the ass-crack of dawn.” But damn, does it all sound good to her. The extra day holed up in the room once she’s done with drill, ordering room service and not leaving these walls for the next twenty-some hours.

“I’d cover it for the night, if you don’t mind. And who says we would have to get up early?” he asks as he shucks his jacket. He places it on the back of the desk chair and slips off his dress shoes.

She watches as he goes for the socks next, even as she slips off her flats and leaves them by the entertainment center. She goes fishing for the few pins she left in her hair, letting the loose braids fall out on their own. She’s sleepy, yet there’s underlying need in every unhurried movement she makes, and she can see the same in Killian’s expression, but he’s asked her a question and she still hasn’t answered.

“Well, your work schedule says we have to get up that early.”

“It would, yes, had I not asked Will to take my place on Monday.”

Her eyebrows furrow as she looks at him, standing there with his vest open and his bare feet, his sleeves still rolled up and his hair all over the place. “You’ve never missed a transition Monday before. You traded your shift for me?”

“Aye,” he says, his voice quiet as he shifts closer to her.

It’s a natural movement, her body gravitating towards his as she leans up to kiss him. His hands almost immediately tangle in her hair, catching on the curls that haven’t completely fallen out yet. His thumbs travel down the sides of her neck, his fingers coming back out of her hair in search of the top clasp of the dress. Even without looking, he’s able to unhook it.

That’s where she stops his control of the situation, stepping back so she can watch his face as she lets the top of the dress slip down until it’s hanging at her waist. Her fingers go for the last closed buttons on his shirt, pushing that and his vest off at the same time. Both get shaken from his arms and he throws them towards the armchair, pulling the undershirt off in one move and letting it fall to the floor. Clearly, he no longer cares about what state the clothes end up in while her fingers go for the closures on his slacks.

As she struggles to work the zipper down as carefully as she can, Killian’s hands slide around her waist to find the zipper on the dress. He is delicate as he hunches a little, tapping the back of her calf to get her to step out of the dress. He places that down gently over the chair, perhaps not wanting it to end up as wrinkled as her pink dress did after their date.

What they end up doing, after he returns to stand in front of her, after he liberates her of the underwear that’s little more than a couple strings and a patch of fabric, after she’s pushed his slacks to the floor and slides his boxer-briefs down painstakingly slowly, is a lot like making love. There’s more intensity than any of their other times together, and Emma can feel the surge of emotions down to her toes as she holds on, clutching his shoulders.

It’s well after one o’clock in the morning after they’ve expended all their passion. She sets her alarm for way too early as she waits for Killian to finish getting ready for bed, then takes her turn before curling up on her side facing Killian. He rolls to face her, running his fingers over her cheek one last time as her eyes finally drift shut and she falls asleep in no time.

-x-

The same night that Emma and Killian are dancing the night away, David finally proposes to Mary Margaret. Emma gets the phone call first, and she answers with one eye cracked open for the first time in over an hour.

She’s been asleep against Killian on the bed for the majority of the early evening. After the early morning wake-up and the long day at drill, she came straight back to the hotel and fell asleep almost on the spot. Her jacket is flung somewhere by the foot of the bed and her boots are haphazardly kicked by the door. She’s thankful the rest of her uniform is headed for the wash and pretty resilient to wrinkles, as it’s all still in place.

When she answers the phone, she’s barely able to get out a full greeting before Mary Margaret is exuberantly talking her ear off in her excitement. She chuckles as she listens, a sleepy sound that causes Killian to rub his hand affectionately down her back as she stretches.

“I knew it had to be soon,” Emma finally says when she gets an opening. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Are you home? Can I come over? I want to start planning as soon as possible and who better to start with than my maid of honor? _Ifyou’llsayyes_.” Mary Margaret blurs the entire last sentence, and Emma laughs a little steadier this time.

“Of course I will be! But I’m not home. We stayed down here one more night to nurse our hangovers and sore feet from last night.”

“Oh,” Mary Margaret says. Then a little more knowingly, “ _oh_ , well. You two enjoy the peace and quiet. We’ll talk tomorrow. Are you two coming out for the Halloween show at the bar?”

“We’ll be there,” Emma assures her. Then they’re saying their goodbyes and she places her phone back on the nightstand, happily relaxing back into Killian’s arms. “Room service and wine from the basket you won?”

Killian looks over the basket in question and grins, clearly pleased with his investment and winnings. “Aye, excellent idea. Will we be eating clothed or in our underwear tonight?”

The voice in the back of her mind that she loves to ignore whispers again what she probably almost maybe ( _definitely, definitely, definitely_ ) feels for the man lying next to her.

-x-

She gets the call on a Tuesday morning in the middle of November, and she slips from the bed while the phone’s still ringing in hopes of not waking Killian up. Once out in the hallway, she’s still quiet when she answers, her voice low and sure that she’ll be hanging up from a wrong number or telemarketer in just a moment.

“Swan? It’s Booth. Uh, just a heads up. The rumors are true. Expect your orders soon.”

Later, she can’t even remember if she said anything else, knowing that she made some noise in acknowledgement to let him know she heard, but otherwise lets the phone drop from her fingertips once the call was ended.

Her other deployment hadn’t even moved her, emotionally, because there was nothing to leave behind. Now, she has a job she actually loves, and friends, and –

_Killian._

She’s been standing in the hallway for a few minutes without really seeing the walls, without noticing the chill on her bare skin. A small shake of her head, pushing aside the swell of thoughts and emotions that just crested, and then she’s back through the door to her bedroom. She twists the handle to close it as quietly as possible.

“Who was it, love?” His voice is still groggy and she’s not sure he’s fully awake yet, so she just sits down on his side of the bed and reaches for his hand. She needs to tell him, needs to tell him that in a few weeks she’ll be heading off for training in Boston, then on to Jersey, then over to Afghanistan for a nine-month deployment.

With such thoughts haunting behind her, Emma presses forward and kisses him. She climbs onto the bed, pushing aside the blankets and sheet before straddling his hips. He’s already rising to the occasion, more than halfway there from the way he thrusts up against her. She has his hands trapped up by his head on the pillow and she reels in the way she can feel his wrists flexing beneath her grip. He doesn’t try to break her hold, doesn’t try to overpower her. He’s perfectly content to let her control this, as he is in every aspect of their relationship.

Even when she takes one hand away to grab a condom before she takes hold of his cock in her hand, he keeps his arm exactly where she left it. She positions him at her entrance and slides down, resuming her hold but sliding both hands up to link their fingers together.

The words are on her tongue to tell him that she loves him, but just as her mouth opens, he braces his feet and thrusts up into her and all powers to speak are lost to her as they find a rhythm together. She leans back against his thighs, letting the gyrations of their bodies and the change in angle drive her closer and enjoying looking down the length of her body to see Killian looking at the place where they’re joined.

He urges her forward again, positioning her hands on either side of his head as his own hands slide down her back to grip her hips. One hand dips forward so his thumb can pass over her clit, nice and easy, and it’s a matter of strokes before she’s coming, the sound bordering on a sob with the emotions coursing through her, and her muscles clench around Killian’s cock as she tumbles over the precipice. Her arms give out, and her head falls to his shoulder where she lazily bites down as Killian’s climax rolls through him.

She sits up again, bracing her hands on his chest, not fully comprehending yet that this is something she’ll miss while she’s gone. Instead, she focuses on the warmth and happiness of his smile, the something showing in his eyes that could be real, honest-to-god, true love. And after a brief war with herself, she knows it’s better to do it now instead of let the secret hang between them any longer.

Leaning down, she kisses him, absorbing that unobstructed contentment just one last time. “I’m getting deployed,” she mutters when she pulls back, keeping her eyes closed so she doesn’t have to see the expression in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several of you guessed this, but remember: I can't update if you hunt me down....


	9. Chapter 9

The numbness that overtakes Killian’s body in the moments after Emma tells him about her orders is all-encompassing. He wonders if this is how she felt in the interim between ending the phone call and coming back into the room. Having heard her goodbye, he expected her to come right back, but his mind was too addled with sleep to pay attention, and it could’ve been moments or minutes before she joined him on the bed again.

He closes himself in the bathroom as she goes to make necessary phone calls, cranking on the water with absent movements. When the water is warm enough, he steps under the spray, turning to face it so he can block everything else out for just a spell. His mind wanders to waking up that morning in Boston, the sheets haphazardly hanging on around their waists and goosebumps apparent on both of their bare torsos. They joined slowly that morning, Emma lazily astride his body and leaning heavily on his chest.

She’d smiled at him, tripping over her words as she tried several times to say something, ending instead on _“I wanted to thank you, Killian, for everything this weekend.”_

“ _It’s always my pleasure, love_ ,” he’d commented, and she made no remarks at the use of the term of endearment as he flexed and thrust up into her.

Shaking himself out of his own thoughts, Killian scrubs a hand over his face and gets to washing himself. He hastily dries off his body and throws on the pair of sweatpants he brought in with him before he towels off his hair.

Emma is curled up on one end of her couch, her phone pressed to her ear and a downright haggard expression on her face. Her voice is clipped and business-like as she makes her calls, crossing each person off the list she’s made on a scrap piece of paper.

After a quick detour to the kitchen, Killian joins her on the couch, placing a mug of her favorite hot cocoa on the coffee table next to her list. Her brows scrunch and her bottom lip quivers for a moment, her voice cracking when she responds to whatever question was just asked on the other end of the phone, and he places a comforting hand on her lower back, otherwise giving her space to do what she needs to do while he leans back into the cushions.

The phone call ends, and Emma rubs at her eyes for a moment before setting her phone down and settling against Killian’s side. He kisses the top of her head as she tucks herself against him, her body curling in on itself, and he tightens his arms just a little in hopes that he can hold all her parts together for her.

For years, they have acted as one another’s rocks, their anchors, the tether that pulls the other back to safety when the boat of life gets rocked a little too hard. They’ve been there countless times to catch each other, to hold each other up, to listen and commiserate and support, and Killian vows to himself that this will be no different from any of those times. The only alteration now is how his heart clenches when he feels the single tear hit the bare skin of his clavicle.

“There are statistics,” she says. There’s a slight hint of hysteria that wasn’t there before, and he knows she’s not talking about something major like survival or injuries. She’s talking about them. About what they have and what they are and what will become of them. She sits up straight again, moving to the end of the cushion she’s perched on.

He’s remarkably calm about all of this. Who cares if the longest he’s ever been apart from her has been a month, and that was ages before they were even sleeping together. This will be one of those things that they just get through.

He loves her, without question or hesitation, so maybe that’s what finally pulls him away from numbness and back to total and utter acceptance. Maybe if he loves her with enough gusto, it’ll pull them both through this. “We’ll overcome them,” he states firmly. His hand is still on her lower back, and he moves it in small circles in an attempt to circumvent the anxiety that’s starting to show on her face.

“There are statistics,” she repeats. “And not just the ones that some shitty website will spew out. My foster dad, the one that got me interested in enlisting, had a girlfriend away from home. Him leaving Ingrid is what got me sent back into the system.”

“You aren’t your foster father. I’m not him, either. I don’t think statistics would know what to do with us, Swan. We’ve been breaking down the barriers of numbers since the day we met.”

She snorts once, calming down for a heartbeat before she becomes agitated all over again. He’s not totally sure what to say, but he opens his mouth and hopes for the best.

“We have a lot working on our side, love. We’ve got the technology to keep in contact. I know I don’t want anyone else, and I don’t think you do, either. I do know that I will miss you, but the time will go so fast if you just remember that we will all be waiting for you on the other side of this.”

“Think I’m having a panic attack,” she mumbles as she tilts over, tucking her head to her knees, and he watches her back rise and fall with the deep breaths she’s taking.

He knows what it is she’s experiencing because even in the midst of this terrible sensation closing in on them in her apartment, he can feel the smile tugging at his lips, can feel the flip of his stomach as he thinks of every moment he’s spent with her before this and every moment he’ll get to spend with her when she gets back. It’s not a panic attack, not by a long shot.

She sits up again, pressing her palm to her chest while her brows furrow closer together than he thought possible. “No, it’s not a panic attack. But it’s something. It feels a lot like –“

“Love?” he ventures, trying to get her on the same page he’s on in the gentlest way he can think of.

“Gimme a minute. I can almost put my finger on it if I –“

“Love.” This time it’s not a question. It’s a statement. He wants so desperately to string those three words together and tell her how he feels, but the time still isn’t right.

“One more second and I might be able to –“

One of his hands clamps around her own while the other tilts her chin so she’s looking directly in his eyes. “Love,” he says again, his voice softening as he looks into her eyes, and a smile definitely lifting his entire face for the first time since she told him she’s leaving for damn near a year.

“What is it, Killian?”

“No, that’s what I think it is. I couldn’t tell you when it happened, because I’m pretty sure I’ve felt this way for a while but just couldn’t put my finger on what to call it.”

“Love,” she repeats back to him.

“Aye.”

And though neither of them has actually said the full phrase to each other, they’re finally standing on level ground at this moment, the same page in their book, the same spot in their story. With their hearts finally in agreement, the prospect of her leaving seems a little less terrifying.

-x-

Much like the status of their relationship, Emma keeps the information of her departure limited to those who need to know, at first. Despite the fact that there’s a looming departure date, if Killian didn’t know about her orders, he would’ve never guessed by the way she practically ignores the fact that she’s leaving.

While they don’t talk about it, Killian notices the change in the way she holds him at night, is sure that he’s drifted in and out of sleep to the sensation of her tracing his features as if memorizing them; he notices that she throws herself into sex, body and soul, not letting the sour news into the bedroom with them. He cherishes those moments more than any others, those moments where it’s just the two of them in their own little world.

It’s almost a week before she manages to tell Mary Margaret and David, and Killian is right next to her when she decides to spill it during lunch at Granny’s one day. Her fingers are white where they clutch his knee for solidarity, and he wishes she weren’t so determined to keep their relationship more of a secret than her deployment so he could comfort her a little better.

She’s looking for the right moment, her body tense even though her face is neutral and bordering on excited while Mary Margaret details the wedding plans that they’ve already made. It’s only when the date is mentioned that she starts to crack.

“The church is open for the twenty-eighth of October next year. It’ll be just a day shy of one year being engaged. Plus, depending on what you come up with, we could celebrate your birthday and the bachelorette party for double the fun!” Mary Margaret is glowing when she finishes speaking.

Emma lets the silence stretch on, her smile faltering, and it doesn’t take the other woman very long to catch on. Her eyes go from wistful to concerned in a heartbeat.

“Emma, what’s wrong?”

“Um, it’s going to be a little difficult to retain the maid of honor title when I will probably be overseas when the wedding occurs.” She pauses and swallows hard before continuing her news. “I’m getting deployed. I still don’t know when we leave, but more than likely I won’t be back until Christmas next year. Maybe even New Year’s.”

To her credit, Mary Margaret does not cry, but she certainly looks like she’s about to. David wraps his arm around her, pulling her close to kiss her temple while she recomposes herself. When she stretches her hand across the Formica tabletop, Emma immediately moves hers to meet her halfway.

“Just because you might not be here doesn’t mean you still won’t be my maid of honor. And I don’t care if it’ll look lopsided. I’m not going to replace you. We’ll stick a goddamn cutout of you wearing the dress at the alter if we have to. Killian can carry it back down after the whole ‘I do’ part and we’ll just skype you for the speeches.”

Maybe it’s the fire of determination burning in her eyes that finally allows Emma to relax a little, at least to the point where Killian isn’t worried she’s going to rip his kneecap off by accident. He brings his arm down briefly to rub his hand comfortingly up and down her arm before moving it to the back of the booth again.

He and David share a look, saying all they need to with slight nods of their heads as they let the two friends work through this on their own. While it may not be common knowledge, he’s pretty sure the two of them aren’t blind, and David’s eyes say as much with the understanding expression he gives Killian before turning his attention back to his wife-to-be.

“What about Ruby? Haven’t you two been friends since you were kids?” Emma asks after a moment.

“Of course! She’s going to be in the wedding, but with her living in Boston, we’re just not as close as we were. And I know she’s going to help out with things, but she and I both know where we stand now.” Mary Margaret shakes her head a little before barreling onward. “But you, Emma, once you opened yourself up to friendships in this town, you’ve been my best friend.”

At these last words, the petite woman finally chokes up. Her words are thick like molasses, and Killian puts his arm back around Emma as he sees the tears well up in her eyes. “From the moment I found you trying to sleep in your car before you found your apartment, you haven’t been able to shake me loose. And even if you’re not here for it, you’re still going to be my maid of honor.”

Killian is convinced that it’s the conviction in Mary Margaret’s speech that closes the discussion and reassures Emma more than anything.

Both women still somehow manage to make it through lunch without shedding any tears, but if Killian is bordering on a little too much comfort in public, no one even notices.

The next couple weeks become a blur of standing by Emma’s side while she tells people her news. Once they all know, it’s as if they all come to the same conclusion without ever acknowledging it. Life around town becomes more about celebrating and enjoying each and every moment than it is about saying goodbye. They use every outing at the bar and every holiday party as an excuse to live it up.

It’s not until two weeks before Christmas that Killian finally knows exactly what he wants to get Emma. One day, when she’s working and he’s off, he spends longer than he normally would selecting the perfect base for his gift. It comes in the form of a day-to-day calendar, one with strange facts on each day of the year, or trivia tidbits. He takes to carrying it with him wherever he goes, and has the people who know and love Emma write her messages to get her through the year.

He finds as many pictures of everyone she knows as he can, even going so far as to message Ingrid to e-mail him pictures of Emma from her time with the woman. Despite being unable to adopt Emma at that point in her life, the two remained close when social media came about, with Ingrid cheering her on at every new milestone. Even Liam sends a picture of his handwritten message, and pictures of the two and three of them, for Killian to print out and add to the calendar.

It takes him those two weeks to compile all that will go into it, and a full day to put it all together. He cuts down the various images, using double sided tape so the pictures can be easily removed if she wishes, placing them on the empty backs of every couple pages. Over a hundred pictures are put in, above message after message. Words of love and bits of humor are scrawled throughout, with messages from Killian added in after all the others have gotten theirs in.

The calendar doesn’t fit back in the box when he’s done with it. The whole thing has expanded to the point where it’s making an acute triangle when he sets it off to the side while he figures out how to wrap the damn thing. He foolishly bought paper and ribbons, thinking it would fit back into the original packaging when it was completed. He could go out and buy a gift bag for it, instead –

He’s interrupted from his thoughts when Emma texts him that she’ll be over in a half hour, and he sends off a response before deciding to just wrap the empty box and hand her the bloody calendar when she’s done.

He takes special pains to intricately wrap the box that the calendar came in, making sure every edge and corner is perfect before painstakingly adding ribbons crisscrossing on top of it. The whole thing gets a bow as big as the box itself, and he hands it over to her with a large smile as she settles next to him on the couch after she’s shucked her boots and cold weather gear by the door when she arrives.

Her eyes light up, the sparkling paper and ribbons in all her favorite patterns and colors. It takes her several minutes to survey the handiwork before she starts turning it to figure out how she wants to tear into it. She shakes it once, her eyebrow lifting in question as it feels unusually light, but he just motions for her to continue.

Emma is normally the kind of person who tears first and asks questions later, so this is the longest Killian has ever seen her look at giftwrap and leave it intact. When she does start in on it, she doesn’t disappoint, and neither does her expression when she hastily opens the box beneath all the paper. “Killian, this is an empty box.”

“Aye, it is.”

“Well, what – “

“The damn thing wouldn’t fit back in the package once I was done with it,” he tells her as he pulls the completed calendar from behind his back. It fans open once he releases the sides, and Emma’s eyes pop open wide.

“Holy shit!” She laughs as she says it, taking the whole thing from his hands and starting to flip through, but he smacks her hands away and closes it back up.

“No peeking ahead. That’s to help you get through the whole year, and I may have hidden some rather dirty messages in there that I’d rather be kept a surprise.” He gives her a wink as he taps the closed calendar, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

“I love it, Killian. Thank you.”

His heart leaps at her gratitude, especially when she sets the present down on the coffee table in favor of shifting onto her knees to sit in his lap. “I left yours at the station. It’s nowhere near as cool as this, but I think you’ll like it.”

“Swan, my love, don’t you realize that you right here, right now, is present enough for me?”

“You’re _such_ a sap,” she whispers against his lips, but otherwise she has no further complaints.

-x-

When Emma leaves for Boston just a week and a half after New Year’s, Killian makes every effort to go down as often as he can. Thankfully, with it still being the off-season, he has the ability to go visit her every Sunday after work and stay until Tuesday morning. While the hotel room is lacking compared to either of their apartments, they relish every moment they get to curl around each other while they still can.

In mid-February, she lets him know there will be a farewell ceremony for the whole unit before they head off to the next point of training to go overseas. “David and Mary Margaret are going to come down to get the Bug on Tuesday. They want to take me out to dinner since they won’t be able to get here until right when the ceremony begins. You’ll be back for it, right?”

“Of course, love. Will has already declared he owes me one for picking him up on New Year’s Day from the station, and I let him know about the shift change yesterday.”

She laughs in response, noting out loud that it didn’t take long for Will to start the tally back up on favors.

It’s Monday night, and she has to be up early to go back into her unit and he has to drive back home, but they’re sitting on the bed flipping through the brochure that finally came in the mail. It’s covered on both sides with little blurbs about the country club, with pictures to accompany each factoid. They both snicker when they see the picture of the wine room, looking pristine and elegant in the picture, but they have a different image of it in their minds.

There are pictures of the sprawling golf course, and the main building from the exterior. And on the inside of the pamphlet, on the left-hand flap, there’s a picture of the salad station’s cutting board, a series of hands with vegetables and knives in various stages of prepping and cutting, with a familiar quote.

Emma reads it out loud, her voice lofty and amused, “’The men and women that work in this kitchen are all _highly_ trained professionals that have _a deep_ appreciation for their craft.’ Good job, Chef Jones.”

“I was trying to get rid of her faster and she wasn’t coming up with the bloody quote on her own. I had a lovely lass that needed my healing soup to get over her dreadful cold,” he says fondly, and Emma laughs softly as she looks over the rest of the pictures. She yawns widely enough that her jaw cracks, so Killian puts the brochure off to the side and repositions them until they’re lying down, buried beneath the covers. It’s February, and even with the heater cranked, they’re having a hard time keeping the chill out of their bones.

Killian reaches behind him without jostling Emma and turns off the light, kissing her forehead, nose, and lips briefly before murmuring goodnight. She hums in response, already halfway to sleep in his arms.

It feels like just a second later, but Killian surmises that it’s already been a couple hours that he’s been out. He focuses on the sound of Emma’s breathing, much too fast, indicating that she’s not sleeping, and then her hand trails up the center of his chest.

“Why’re you still awake, Swan?” He’s barely conscious, himself, but he needs to make sure she’s okay.

“Just,” she pauses, her hand sliding across his collarbones before resting warmly on his cheek, “absorbing.” She sighs it out, and although he can hear the smile, the pain in her words echoes after. “Absorbing it all.”

He shimmies his arm beneath her to wrap it around her back, drawing her closer so he can wrap both of his arms around her as they lapse into silence once more.

“I’m going to miss you,” she tells him, and it’s the closest he thinks he’ll get to an admission of feelings at this point in time.

“Not a day will go by that I won’t think of you.”

“Good,” she responds, and turns her face to kiss at whatever skin is closest to her lips. The mechanical whirring of the heating unit lulls them to sleep, finally, and he’s only awakened again when the alarm on his phone goes off, signaling it is time for him to drive back to Storybrooke in time to get to work.

Emma is already awake and dressed, securing the last hairpins into her bun. She turns around when he sits up, smiling around the bobby pin between her lips. “Morning,” she mutters as her fingers blindly place the one she’d already been working with. She removes the last pin from her mouth and works it into her hair. “I wanted to let you sleep as late as possible.”

“I’ll appreciate it later this evening, love.” He extracts himself from the bed, searching for where he kicked off his jeans the night before and sliding them back over his boxer briefs. While she’d turned back to the mirror after seeing he was up, he still catches Emma eyeing him in the mirror. She gives a soft wolf-whistle and smirks at him, chuckling when he quirks an eyebrow in response.

He kisses her senseless in the entryway to her room before assuring her that he’ll be back for the farewell ceremony. They go their own ways when they get to the lobby, Emma to join up with members of her unit (he waves a quick goodbye to those he recognizes, including Mulan and August) and Killian straight out the doors to his vehicle to get back on the road.

Two days later, there’s a much different feel in the air when he drives down to the army reserves unit. The main hall has been filled with chairs, and the soldiers that will be deploying are all lined up at the front of the room. Their families all fill the chairs, and Killian snags three in a row for himself and David and Mary Margaret, who he spots wandering in a few moments later.

When the official ceremony has concluded, they congregate and mingle as long as they can. They all take turns getting pictures with Emma. She and Mary Margaret cling to each other with tears just barely visible in their eyes, even as they smile wide for the camera.

If what she does with Mary Margaret is clinging, there’s no appropriate word for the way she holds on to Killian when it’s their turn. He pulls her close, resting his hand on her hip as her head falls to his shoulder. When he looks at the picture later, he’ll see the peaceful expression on her face as she leans against him and smile through the heartache, but for now, he only longs to kiss her once more before they leave.

“Didn’t you say you needed a restroom?” Emma asks him a second later, as if reading his mind. He can only nod, and she tugs his arm in the opposite direction as she tells the others that they’ll be right back.

Once down the separate hallway, she pulls him down and kisses him so hard that when their mouths open to each other, their teeth clack. She murmurs something between kisses, but he misses it in favor of cupping her cheeks and diving back in for one more kiss, and then she’s pulling away just as quickly and wiping at her eyes. She gives him a watery smile as they head back to the main hall to get her rucksack.

The next few minutes feel as if he’s experiencing them underwater. The din of the crowd is overwhelming and calming all at once, the cacophony of sounds bouncing around him. Emma shoulders her bag, smiling as brightly as she can when David helps her get it balanced, and she pulls her hat out as they all walk towards the doors. Her hat goes on the second she walks out, the black embroidered ‘SWAN’ staring straight at him, and he thinks to grab his phone out one more time to snap a picture of her moving towards the bus that will take them to New Jersey.

As soon as her bag is where it’s supposed to go for the journey, she returns to hug them all one more time, trying to spend the same amount of time on each hug and then walking swiftly to board the charter bus.

Around them, other families are all giving the same final hugs and kisses, and Killian watches with a small smile frozen on his face, until every last soldier is on the buses and the families all stand back while they start moving.

He watches as the bus rolls away from them, recognizing immediately the feeling as if one of his limbs just decided to wander away from his body. It’s been a couple years since that month he and Emma spent apart. It was near the start of their friendship, and he only noticed her absence in the hours he would normally ask if she wanted to grab a bite at Granny’s diner, or the tentative start of their movie nights. Now, at least that length of time is going to pass before she even leaves the country, and from that point on it will just add, and add, and add.

David and Mary Margaret approach him as he moves back toward the parking lot where all their vehicles are. He accepts the pat on the back from David, and the tight hug from Mary Margaret, and brushes the rest of it off, just wanting to get in his truck and drive home and sleep until Emma’s home again. But Ruby is close behind as he breaks away from them, her face devoid of makeup for the first time in his memory. Her eyes are puffy and red, and she’s still sniffling, even as she smiles at him reassuringly.

“Mind if I hitch a ride back? I’m staying with Granny for a little bit. Requested the time off.” Other than the slight waver in her voice and the tears that still imminently cling to the corners of her eyes, Ruby sounds like herself. His face must give away this thought somehow, because a short laugh escapes her. “This isn’t my first deployment,” she explains, linking her arm through his and they lean on each other as they make it the final length to his truck.

Once they’re buckled in and he merges on to the freeway, he hears Ruby’s sniffles start up again.

“You’ll get used to it,” she says, digging a package of tissues out of her purse. “You’ll pull out your phone to text or call her, and it’ll be just as your finger is about to hit send, or dial out, that you’ll remember she’s not in the same country. But I promise it gets easier before they even leave.” She reaches across to pat his arm and settles back against the seat with a sigh.

It takes him ten more miles of silence to start asking Ruby what to expect in terms of communication frequency, if he’ll get to talk to her instead of just e-mailing and texting when she has service, if it’ll be the full length of the deployment he’ll have to go without seeing her face in real-time.

Some questions, she’s able to answer with no problem. Yes, he’ll get to talk to her once or twice while they’re over there. For the most part, she and Mulan were able to communicate in some form once a day if they wanted to. Sometimes she won’t answer for a couple days, but he can’t let himself get worked up or worried about it. No, he’ll get to see her face in real-time at some point. Even if it’s a five minute Skype session. And if not, there’s always sending videos back and forth, which is something she and Mulan have done in the past.

He gathers all this information and stores it for later use, compiling ideas for ways he can make this less painful for him and Emma throughout the length of her deployment. When Ruby clambers out of his truck in front of her grandmother’s bed and breakfast, he already feels that same sense of calm coming over him that he did when Emma first broke the news.

-x-

One day, a little under a month after the ceremony, Emma texts him that she’ll be calling him later if he has time. He pulled an all-nighter to get the menu just right for spring and summer, trying to get one step ahead of Hades and his overly critical commentary. He responds for her to call when she’s ready, that he’ll be napping before getting to work on cleaning his place since he’s neglected it for a couple days, before he drops off to sleep.

Just as he said he would, he wakes up, bleary and sluggish from his nap, and starts on chores he has no desire to complete. He gets his sheets changed and his laundry started, taking the time to vacuum the carpets in both his room and the spare bedroom before turning his attentions to the kitchen.

Normally meticulously clean, he’s let the dishes pile up and the counters become cluttered. When it’s all put back in order, he switches out his laundry and takes the time to copy his new recipe creations into the notebook he keeps, replacing sloppy handwriting and broth drips for clean pages and neat script.

It’s as he’s folding the first load of laundry out of the dryer that his phone rings, and he happily pushes the task to the side in favor of greeting the welcome sound of Emma’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi,” she says softly, and his heart beats twice as hard from that one simple word.

“How are you, love?”

“I’m okay. We’re getting ready to go. I wanted to hear your voice again before we left. I don’t know exactly what time, but this is the last time I’ll be able to call you for a little while.”

“I figured as much when you said you would call,” he tells her. She’s always been something of an open book to him.

“Did you get your place cleaned up again?” she asks. It’s all so mundane, but it’s not like he was expecting declarations of love and devotion from this particular call.

“Aye, it’s a work in progress. My kitchen is clean again, which is the _most_ important part, as well you know.” He listens to her quiet chuckle on the other end, doing his best to imagine what she looks like when she makes that sound. “Mary Margaret said she would go over and clean your place every other week so I’m not the only one going over and moping and washing the windows with my tears.” He says it jokingly, but it still stings a little in its almost-truth.

“That’s nice of her to share the duties of keeping a soldier’s home clean with misery. We love that, you know.” She’s outright laughing when she says it, which is what he was hoping for.

“Will you get to sleep at all before leaving?”

“I don’t know,” she says softly. “I’m going to find food and figure out the rest after that. I just needed a couple minutes of you, first.”

He hums in response, settling back on his couch to give her his undivided attention. They chat for a couple more minutes before she tells him she has to go, sounding utterly defeated when she does so.

“Safe travels, love. Try to keep me in the loop as you go. I know it won’t always be possible.”

“It won’t, but I’ll do my best. And Killian?”

“Yes, Swan?”

“I love you.”

The line goes dead after those three little words, and Killian drops his phone in surprise. He knows without even trying that her phone will be off if he tries to call her back, so he takes one solidly deep breath, expelling it and closing his eyes as he stares at the last call.

“I love you, too.”


	10. Chapter 10

So maybe confessing that she loves Killian before hanging up with him wasn’t Emma’s _best_ plan, but there’s some sort of peace that follows that moment. For one, Emma is able to catch three hours of sleep after she knows her gear is completely packed. It makes her more alert when it comes time to head out, and she’s able to give a hand to a couple of the younger soldiers that have never deployed.

She scores a seat next to Mulan, the two of them locking their arms together during take-off, and grinning their way through it. The picture on the calendar had been of her and Killian, green beers in hand and the fact below about 1% of the world’s beer being consumed on St. Patrick’s Day. The message from Killian simply reads “ _To contributing to the one percent again, as soon as you’re home_ ” and she smiled wide before packing it carefully into her duffel.

The flight is long and boring, and she’s pretty sure she doesn’t stop to relax from that point on. It barely takes a week before she’s sending e-mails to Killian asking for reinforcements from home. Nothing will ever make the trailer she’s in any more comfortable, but if she can’t sleep longer than an hour because she’s so damn miserable, it’s going to be a long deployment.

When the package finally arrives one day from home, Emma quickly pulls out her laptop and loads up the e-mail from Killian that came in three days prior. It takes a few minutes to fully download, and she holds her breath as she taps it again to bring up the video.

He’s sitting at his kitchen table with the same box by his elbow, a tired smile on his face as he looks into the camera on his own computer. She hits play as soon as the tape on the box is removed, waiting for the video to begin.

“Hello, my love,” he says when it finally starts playing. She has listened to the emphasis on ‘my love’ so many times in the last three days that she’s lost count. “If you’ve not received the boxes from all of us yet, I ask that you hit stop on this video so that we might go through it together.”

She’s gotten this far before. She’s seen the widening of his smile as his eyes look fondly at the lens, as if he’s sitting across from her on the bunk instead of all the way over in Storybrooke, and as if he knows that she wanted nothing more than to continue watching the video even though she hadn’t gotten the mail from home yet.

“If you’ve not gotten the packages yet and you’re still watching, that’s considered cheating in this game, darling, and bad form.”

Emma smiles wide at his admonishing expression, even when he _tsks_ her with a mischievous smile. She pulls the box closer when he moves to place it in his lap, anxious to finally see what they’ve all sent her.

“On to the presents!” he says joyfully, reaching in to start pulling out the items one at a time. She mimics him, opening the flaps of cardboard to display the contents. “Firstly, you’ll find the books and movies you requested. Mary Margaret was unable to locate your copy of the first _Harry Potter_ , so she sent you hers. Next, the impressive list of snacks you’ve all asked for. I threw in extra Nutella treats for you, my love, since I happen to know they’re your favorite.”

There they are beneath a thick layer of bubble wrap, and Emma resists tearing one open right then and there, anxious for the sweet fix that she plans on sharing but will also stash around her room for herself. But there’s still a giant box of stuff to get through, and she’s more curious to see what else was sent her way.

“You’ll find, underneath the mountain of sugar, that we’ve sent along the sheets and pillowcases you requested. Your pillows are in the next box, which should get there around the same time as this one, although I think Mary Margaret beat me to the post office by a day and you may have already received that one.”

Sure enough, the box in question is sitting next to her bed, Mary Margaret’s flowery handwriting stating “Open Me Second!” on a corner at the top. Her heart aches at the sweetness of the gesture, but she’s distracted from it by the voice speaking softly to her again.

“She may have included a couple things all her own for you, but I’m sure you’ll discover those when you open it up.” He sucks in a breath and lets it back out again. “Continuing, you’ll find a couple more of the items you requested. I included a stash of pens to go with the notebooks and blank cards, in case you didn’t have any. And the last item in the box needs to be saved. Wait until homesickness really takes root. It’ll hopefully help in the hour of need.”

She touches the bag in question only briefly, because a surge of homesickness crashes through her, but it ebbs away again and she knows it’s not quite time, yet. She pauses the video in order to stash it away immediately to remove the temptation; the time she’s going to be here is still young, so she grabs the bag (that appears to be _duct taped, jeez_ ) and places it at the top of her footlocker.

With the box from Killian emptied, she sets it off to the side and presses play again, already dreading the end of the video.

“All done then, aye?” She nods at the video, as if he can see her reaction, and he nods back at her, as if he’s mirroring her. “Aye, well. Let me tell you a little bit about what’s going on around here. Hades has reared that ugly face of his again.” And off he launches into a story about the country club. She checks the video and sees there’s another few minutes left. Seems he wasn’t ready to end it just as she was unwilling for it to end.

Emma watches him talk, could watch him talk for hours (in fact, she has before) if she had her way. And when the video is coming to a close, her stomach clenches up. Again, mirroring her, Killian’s face takes on the pinched expression of emotional pain that she’s seen before, but never in direct relation to her, and it hurts that much more for her to see it. “I believe this video is nearing its size limit, so I’d better end it now. I uh, yeah. That’s all I’ve got for today. I miss you already, Swan. Be safe, and – yeah, you know.” He tilts his chin down and looks at the camera from beneath his lashes, and a spark of want flares in her.

It’s going to be a very long deployment.

The image freezes on his smiling face, and she reaches out with one hand to stroke down the lines of his cheek, over his brow, before forcing herself to close out of the window. She only has a limited amount of time before her roommate gets back, and she wants to be settled into her bedding from home before that happens.

Mary Margaret’s box includes a sweet card, specifically designed to be sent to troops, which tells her how proud she is of Emma. It includes the list of items she sent, which is definitely more than just pillows. As she slips the small travel bottles out, each one taped shut and triple bagged, she smiles wide.

“ _Mary Margaret_ ,” Emma whispers, finding the little key which indicates which liquor is in which bag. It’ll be a long deployment, but she really does have the best friends in the world.

-x-

She was right; there’s nothing that could make the bed and trailer _truly_ comfortable, but the smell of her laundry detergent on her flannel sheets, the feel of her own pillows and her favorite blanket (thanks again to Mary Margaret) makes it bearable, at least. The nip of booze every once in a while, doesn’t hurt either.

The office lunges for the various treats as soon as she brings them in, and she’s glad she stashed a few of them for herself beforehand.

The paper and pens get used almost immediately. She sends a letter to Mary Margaret, thanking her for the items from home, the use of her book, and the signatures of no less than five fellow soldiers who have benefited from the liquor.

She writes one to Killian, too, giving him brief snippets on the things that are going on. The one pad of paper gets devoted to a journal, of sorts, allowing Emma to jot down the thoughts she can’t share with any of her friends back home and doesn’t want to share with anyone that’s with her.

Calendar pages get torn off and stashed daily. She encounters pictures of Mary Margaret and David, in various combinations with herself. There are pictures of Ruby and Mulan, with and without Emma. There are reluctant shots of Regina, and less reluctant pictures of her with Robin and his son. There are three days in a row of pictures of her and Killian – a series when he managed to dump an entire cup of ice down the back of her shirt. The last is her retaliation, him soaked from head to toe emerging from the pool outside her apartment building.

It takes an additional three weeks for her to crack and open the sealed bag from Killian, and when she does she almost immediately starts sobbing. The moment she gets part of the bag opened, the smell of him overwhelms her and she has to take a minute to calm her breathing down before she can continue. She wriggles a finger into the side and rips it the rest of the way open, revealing a familiar black article of clothing.

His chef’s coat is as clean as it can be, given the time it’s spent with him in the kitchen, but he’d obviously been baking the day he packaged it up. It smells of cinnamon and bread, with a slight hint of chocolate mixed in there as well. And somehow, neither drowned out or overpowering all of those, is the smell of Killian’s deodorant and cologne. It must’ve been from his menu tasting day or something, because she knows he would’ve never sent one that he’d been sweating in all day.

Carefully, she lifts the coat from the bag, and a piece of paper flutters out of the folds. She grabs the note and sets it to the side, instead pulling the coat to her nose to inhale a few times. She slips it over her shoulders before reaching for his message. It’s not a long one, but it makes her love him just a little bit more, if possible.

_Dearest Swan,_

_If you’ve pulled this out, it’s because the homesickness has well and truly taken hold and I figured you might appreciate the brunch menu we’re working on for Easter. Big things are happening at CS Country Club. Luckily, I wasn’t doing most of the hard work, so it’s not too terribly gross, compared to my other coats. Though I doubt you would care if it was, because you’re weird like that. If it loses the smell, send it back and I’ll purposefully recreate the whole thing just to send you a new one._

_Don’t forget. You have a piercing-eyed, smoldering chef here who loves you, and I very much look forward to you being home._

_Love, Killian_

“Thank you,” she whispers to the room, “I love you, too.”

-x-

It’s not all bad. There are plenty of things that keep her head from getting caught up too much in what’s going on and where she is.

She gets regular mail from Mary Margaret, both in the form of emails, and letters and cards with heartfelt words written inside. There are packages from various friends in town, sending along snacks and junk food. The rest of her office also gets mail, and they begin sharing snacks whenever new ones come in. They also get bulk supplies of shampoo and conditioner, toothpaste, and lotions.

The mother lode of all food items comes from Granny, of course. There’s a disparaging comment about the food enclosed not measuring up to hers, but below that is a cornucopia of items. In individual bags, there’s various sauces: hot sauce, ketchup, barbeque, honey mustard, ranch. There are single servings of salt and pepper. She sends several packages of different kinds of jerky. And on the bottom of the box, triple layered in bubble wrap, are two cases of ramen instant packs.

If there’s such a thing as eating like kings on deployment, they do so for two full weeks before the bigger ticket items run out.

There are almost continuous messages from Killian. He sends quick emails to fill her in on what’s going on. There’s a tonal change from the first month of her deployment to the ones that come after, but she has an idea that it comes with the territory of settling into her absence. There’s a particularly excellent treat that comes in one of those, that comes with pictures, and she blushes for the next day and a half at even the thought of what he did in her bed. But for the most part, they’re normal correspondences with Killian, and she wonders if this is how they would’ve interacted if he’d been there for her previous one, and if he would’ve been this good at it if they weren’t dating before she left.

As far as the statistics go, she thinks they must not have their own Killians at home, because there’s nothing in this godforsaken hellhole that could ever measure up. She gets hit on quite a bit from members of different units, a hazard of being a woman in the military, but they all get shot down, one by one, and it sticks. If it doesn’t, she’s lucky enough to have August (who has his own sweetheart waiting back at home) to watch her back, and he’s just one line of defense.

She gets to Skype with Killian sometimes, fighting with the Wi-Fi to give her five minutes, just enough to see his tired but smiling face looking back at her, to hear his sleepy voice as his lips move on the screen (or seconds behind when the words have reached her, as is customary with their less-than-stellar connections).

“What’s on your calendar today?” he asks near the end of their short time.

“Let’s see, June 14. ‘The tongue is the strongest muscle in the body after the heart, jaw, and glutes. It consists of eight small muscles.’ And below this, you’ve written ‘wink wink’ beneath a picture of you and Will with blue tongues from the slushes we got at the carnival last summer.”

“The wink wink stands, Swan. I could say some things about the strength of tongues but I feel as if both of us would be upset if I did.”

She chuckles in agreement, enjoying the way Killian’s eyebrows jump in short jerky movements from the video quality.

“I miss you, love,” he says softly when there’s a lull again, and her fingers itch to reach out and touch him. It’s been four months since she last kissed him and she’s looking at another five or six, depending on when they end up leaving.

For Father’s Day, there’s a picture of Emma and David in their police uniforms, leaning against the cruiser. She’s always said that since she didn’t have a father of her own that David was the closest thing she’d ever have to one, and their matching smiles certainly look familial. His scratchy handwriting takes up the space below the trivia for the day, reading _“Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom? Because the pee is silent!”_ and it actually makes her snort from laughing.

On July 1, there’s a picture of Emma and Mary Margaret, probably the first one they ever took together, sitting in a booth at Granny’s with cheesy smiles on their faces. Visible behind them are a portion of the miners that love to drink after they get done working for the day. The fact of the day: “ _Rejected names for the dwarf’s included: Jaunty, Blabby, Dirty, Gabby, Biggy-Wiggy, Gaspy, Gloomy, Awful, Deefy, Hoppy-Jumpy, Hotsy, Nifty, and Shifty.”_

Killian’s message beneath it mentions something about them needing a dwarf named “Stealthy” to round out the pack.

Some days, there are messages from him; little scrawls that tell her he misses her and wishing she was home with him. Other times he writes about a random moment in their history. “ _Remember that time…?_ ” starts a lot of them. There are long notes of love and encouragement from Mary Margaret and David, each of them taking up several days just to tell her how proud of her they are, mixed in with the occasional dad-joke from David (his specialty). There’s even a message from Granny telling Emma that she’ll have a plate of onion rings ready the second she walks back through that door.

The most surprising mail she gets is a small envelope from Ruby that appears in mid-July.

There’s a cryptic message inside, which she’s guessing has something to do with Mulan’s position as NCO, which reads “ _I know some things. I have some plans._ ” Inside the box is a detailed sizing chart with places for her to write in her numbers and a measuring tape. She shrugs when she reads the message and goes about her day, leaving the card until her next free moment.

When she gets back to her trailer after work, she diligently sets out the little card and a pencil, pulling the tape just tight enough over the areas that are requested, carefully holding the tape beneath her heel to take the length of legs from natural waist to her ankles. She diligently marks each number next to the appropriate spot, reminding Ruby that no matter what her bust size says, she also likes to breathe.

Her favorite calendar day comes just two weeks after she sends the card back to Ruby. It’s a simple matter of irony. It’s not the fact of the day ( _“Hermit crabs have ten legs. The front six are walking legs, and the back four stay in the shell”)_ that holds her attention later that night when she returns to her bunk. No, it’s the message from Killian written at the very bottom of the little page that reads _“Please come home soon”_ that causes a short burst of laughter.

On this day, in the beginning of August, Mulan looks at her and says, “How would you like to go to Mary Margaret and David’s wedding?”

“We don’t get leave this time around.”

“Not leave. We’re going home early.”

She gets back to her trailer, stunned and smiling, and tries to figure out how to process the news that she’ll be back in time for the wedding. Not only that, but it means that in just fifty-eight days, she’ll be back on American soil. And a few weeks after that, she’ll be home. She’ll see her friends. She’ll get to see Mary Margaret in her wedding dress.

And Killian? She’ll get to tell him she loves him in person this time.

As if thinking his name summons him, she remembers that they’re supposed to be video chatting right around the same time she realizes she’s crying. She swipes at her eyes, trying to compose herself as the call continues to beep excessively at her. She reaches for her computer again and knocks the decline button on accident.

Taking a deep breath, she realizes this is probably a blessing, because she can get herself composed before calling him back. But he’s persistent and calls again, just as a fresh wave of tears is crashing, and this time she hits the button on purpose. She immediately types into the chat that she needs a minute and rushes around her trailer to make herself presentable again.

Less than three minutes later, she’s settled on her bunk with her laptop in front of her, pushing the button to call Killian back.

“I was worried my computer was acting up again and wasn’t even calling. Everything all right, love?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, trying to keep the utter elation out of her voice. Her smile is warm, and he mirrors it back at her. “Just been a crazy day. I can’t even tell if my head is on straight anymore.”

“Looks like it is,” he comments with a wink. “I have some exciting news about the club, but I think I’ll save it for another day. Or just e-mail it to you. Today I want to tell you all about how Will Scarlet is utterly and genuinely in love with our pastry chef.”

The conversation takes her mind off her own exciting news, which makes it easier on her. She wants nothing more than to tell Killian that she’s coming home early, but the idea of surprising him is way too appealing, so she bottles her happiness over that matter and focuses on his story instead.

She squashes the urge to say “See you soon!” when they’re ending the call, even when Killian again expresses how much he’s looking forward to having her back in town.

“My life is just a tiny bit boring without you here, Swan. And I want you to know that I would’ve said that even if I hadn’t fallen in love with you before you left,” he tells her. It’s not the first time he’s so blatantly-yet-indirectly told her he loves her, but it still makes her stomach flutter like crazy. She can’t fight the smile that forms from his words, even if he downright refuses to just say “I love you” in just those words.

She supposes, as the video ends and she’s left in the quiet of her bunk again, that she deserves as much with how she told him.

-x-

Being back on American soil after seven months away is weird. It’s not the first time she’s noted this exact sensation, as her other deployment was a little bit longer, even if she did have leave halfway through it.

Her initial reaction to being back home (-ish, they’re in New Jersey and still have weeks until she’ll _actually_ be home) is that it’s cold. Of course, most places would be after being in Afghanistan. It’s cold, and the air smells so _clean_ (yes, even in Jersey) and she stands outside for a solid five minutes before hauling her stuff into the barracks. It’s October, so the leaves are changing and the air is crisp, and she would soak it up all day if she could.

The first wave of panic over the plan to keep her homecoming secret comes the first night. She ends up furiously texting Ruby about what to do about mail and stuff. What does she do if Killian wants to Skype again? What does she do _if_ …? What does she do _when_ …?

Ruby, for her part, is on top of all of it. She sends back that she’s intercepted the care package that should’ve been sent out to her already. She told Mary Margaret that she wanted to add some things for Mulan and would handle shipping it out to them this time around. All of the stuff that she and Mulan had already sent home is sitting at Ruby’s apartment in Boston, and she’s still trying to figure out how to get Emma’s stuff back to her apartment without anyone noticing what she’s doing.

As for Killian, Ruby tells her to brush off any attempts to Skype. She tells her to kind of pay attention to time differences, and to respond as close to when she would’ve responded when she was over there. It’s clear that the effort it takes to hide will be exhausting, but Ruby reminds her that it’ll be worth it for the look on Killian’s face when she gets back, when he gets to hold her in his arms long before he thought he would.

The calendar days get peeled off faster and slower. The pile grows, but it still feels like ages as she counts down the time until she gets to go home. It doesn’t help that they get delayed more than once, so that they have to push back the surprise plans from Mary Margaret’s bachelorette party to the rehearsal dinner. That means she has to live with just a text from Killian on her birthday, accompanied by a picture of the group from dinner last year around her swan cake.

Then it moves from the rehearsal dinner to the morning of, to the ceremony, and finally (and hurriedly) to the reception.

When they land at Logan airport, Emma and Mulan are both drunk. The stress of heading home mixed with such big reunion plans has them both sipping drinks before the flight. So when it was delayed, they just kept sipping. Then there were drinks on the plane (half of which they got free as soon as they said they were going home from deployment) and they won’t admit to it, but they stop at the bar when the plane lands to get one more shot before the first reunion of the day.

As they finally wander out of the terminal, the cab is just pulling up in a supreme act of perfect timing. Emma relaxes in the back seat, finally feeling like the world is taking a breather as they head to meet up with Ruby. Had there been just a little more time between the ceremony and reception, she would’ve been there to pick them up from the airport.

They have to get ready at a rest stop outside of Storybrooke, which includes having to remove their hair from the permanent bun-shaped messes they were. Ruby wanders in half-way through that process, throwing herself into Mulan’s arms and hugging her tight for several minutes before she’s willing to let go. It’s a race after that to get them wedding reception ready in the short amount of time they have left.

To be fair, it probably would’ve been a _little_ easier had two of them not still been tipsy, but other than a touch of exasperation in her voice as she yells at Mulan to hold still while she restyles her hair, or telling Emma to _stop fucking with the dress and just put the damn thing on!_ , it’s more a point of humor, especially when it comes to the bridesmaid dress.

“Ruby,” Emma huffs out. The dress is on…ish. But there are these long pieces that are supposed to wrap around her. She’s holding those over her breasts, but has one end in her hand, rubbing it across her cheek. “I don’t know how to do this,” she explains, “but this fabric is so soft.”

For her part, Ruby just laughs and zips up the back of Mulan’s black sheath dress and kisses her exposed neck once before wandering over to help Emma.

“It’s a convertible dress. You just have to wrap it so it stays on. There’s no right or wrong way.”

“Well, obviously there’s a wrong way because this isn’t staying on. I am holding it in place.”

“Here, let me. Do you want it halter or one strap or – “

“You’re speaking gibberish, Red. Just wrap it so my boobs don’t fall out. I don’t care how much Killian would want that. I want my homecoming to be a good thing, not a scandalous wardrobe malfunction.”

The other two women laugh, and Ruby finally ties off the dress.

“There. That should hold you. Ready?”

“Ready,” Mulan says, capping the matte lipstick in her hand.

“Let’s go, so I can kiss my boyfriend.”

-x-

The reception hall is so much bigger than Emma expected it to be. The outside of the place looks like a castle, which Emma already knew from the pictures that Mary Margaret sent along when they booked the venue. But the stone structure in front of her is sprawling and huge. Located just outside Storybrooke’s town limits, it’s close enough for the majority of their guest list, but also far enough away that many of the wedding goers have chosen to book rooms in the bed and breakfast portion attached to the back of the hall.

With one more deep breath, they exit Ruby’s car when two valets open the doors and assist them out. The main attendant hands Ruby her collection ticket and bids them goodnight, motioning his hand to the massive door behind him. Another man is waiting to hold it open for them, and they all give each other looks, knowing that this fairytale scene is something only Mary Margaret could’ve found.

Down the main hallway, they admire the chandeliers, the accent pieces, the artwork, until they get to the doors of the main ballroom. The doors are propped open, and Emma can see Mary Margaret and David at the main table. True to their words, there’s a seat open next to them where she would’ve sat, and another empty one where Ruby will be sitting. She’s exasperated to see that Killian is also missing from his seat, but the cocktail hour is just starting, so there’s a chance he’s running late.

Her stomach drops out, and suddenly she’s afraid that they’ve timed this all wrong, but then she must hit the right patch of light on her way to the bridal table and Mary Margaret’s eyes go wide when she sees Emma. With the music still low for mingling, she can hear the other woman gasp first, before letting out a high-pitched squeal.

David, who had been turned towards her instead of looking out at the party, looks utterly confused as Mary Margaret knocks her chair back and sprints around the table, her eyes filling with tears as she gets close enough to hug Emma, and then he’s out of his chair just as fast. He’s only a split second behind his new wife in embracing her, his hand cupping the back of her head as Mary Margaret sniffles against her shoulder.

“Did Ruby give you the super waterproof mascara today?” Emma asks quietly, all at once overwhelmed but feeling completely content enclosed by her friends.

“I didn’t know why,” Mary Margaret squeaks out, adding in, “This is the best wedding gift you could’ve gotten us.”

“And here I thought the Twister bed sheets I sent you from Amazon were the best gift ever.”

They finally release her, just enough to hold her at arm’s length and stare at her as if she isn’t real. Mary Margaret still has tears rolling down her cheeks, and David looks like he’s one blink away from spilling over, while Emma can tell that she’s crying all over again, as well. She opens her mouth to say something else, make another joke, tell her how much she’s missed them, when their eyes shift to a spot just beyond her shoulder.

Turning, she already knows he’s going to be there, and he looks so shocked. There’s a perfect opening between her at the head of the room and him all the way at the back, as if the guests parted to create the perfect aisle for them. His lips move, and even with the space between their bodies, it’s like she can hear him say her name. He’s walking with purpose after that, not quite running but definitely no longer dillydallying to get to her. She expects a hug, and she gets that and so much more.

Killian’s lips connect hard with hers, his arms wrapping tight around her waist as she winds hers around his neck.

Their friends are whooping and catcalling, there’s a spotlight on them now, and Emma doesn’t care.

She’s _home_.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s only once everything else has calmed down for a minute that Killian finally allows himself a week of despondency. But it’s not at his own place that he ends his first night, it’s at Emma’s. The bottle of rum he brought with him rolls half-empty away from the recliner as he collapses onto it, pulling his favorite blanket around his shoulders as he settles in with a movie. He sends what he _thinks_ is a mostly intelligible response to an e-mail from Emma before closing one eye to focus on the movie as much as possible.

He’s just about asleep, curled up on the chair, when his phone buzzes with an incoming e-mail, and he loads up the picture of her with humor dancing in her eyes and exasperation playing at her lips. “ _Go to bed, drunky”_ is the only thing she wrote back, so he takes her advice and turns everything off before collapsing onto her bed. A year before, he had never slept in her bed. Now, he’s sleeping in it alone for the first time.

He wakes up, still drunk, wrapped in Emma’s comforter and almost painfully aroused. It’s been since February since he touched her, since she touched him; that time just a hurried moment in the hotel room before they both had to be going where they were going. His shirt is sticking to him in a boozy sweat, his pants painfully confining, and his phone lights up with some notification or another just as the inspiration hits to take a peek at that picture of Emma again.

“Forgive me, Swan, for what I’m about to do,” he says to the quiet, empty bedroom. He hastily strips out of his clothes, switching on the small lamp on the nightstand in order to better locate the lubricant stored in her side drawer. He’s not quite sure what drives him to switch to the camera, to snap the first picture as his hand wraps around his erection. But soon there’s a series of pictures, several making it clear exactly where he is. Her curtains are in the background of one, her distinct lampshade visible in another.

His phone gets abandoned as he optimizes his hands, closing both his palms around his cock as he links his fingers, letting his memory run wild with images and sensations he’s stored from his time with Emma. He remembers that first time, the moisture in the air from the humidity and storms outside, the sweat tracking down both of their skin as they coupled, even as the air conditioner worked hard to cool them back down.

There are images of her in his mind as she sat on the couch, her bare breasts tantalizing under his chef’s coat, her lip caught between her teeth as sin flashed in her eyes. There’s the wine room, Emma perched on the table, her legs open and dangling off the edge. And that time she all but tackled him in his own personal kitchen, only pushing down his trousers enough for them to join, her riding him with her head thrown back and her camisole a sweaty mess. All of the memories run together, all of Emma giving and taking in the sprints and the marathons, in the passionate and the carefree, whether graceful or clumsy.

He thinks of every stolen kiss in dark hallways, every movie night that the movie became background noise as they explored every inch of each other, every stroke, every touch, every hungry mouth leaving marks on skin.

He imagines what she would do if she were here, if she would be partaking in the action or sitting back and watching him at work – something they’d done once or twice in order to rile the other one up more – and it’s the thought of her perched at the bottom of the bed, kneeling over his shins, possibly allowing one hand to wander between her own legs that finally pushes him over the edge.

Grabbing tissues from the nightstand, he makes sure to clean up thoroughly when he’s done, leaving no trace on the sheets but vowing to wash them the next time he’s over. They won’t smell exactly like her, but her detergent will be an adequate substitute for the time being. Nothing will measure up until she’s home, regardless.

After a quick rinse in the shower, he feels much better, but still not sober enough to drive home. He settles back into his spot on the bed, leaving her side open as he carefully selects pictures from his phone to send along. In any of the ones of his face, he looks utterly licentious. He looks for details that he knows she prefers – the way he grabs, the way he pulls, a certain angle – and loads them into an email with a simple heading to remind her to read that e-mail when she’s very alone, away from prying eyes. He also includes some succinct descriptions of how he wishes she’d been present, before hitting send and throwing his phone onto the empty side of the bed.

In the morning, when he wakes up hungover, but slightly refreshed, he finds a response from Emma in the form of a singular sentence in their message thread: _Payback is a bitch_.

-x-

On their third trip for supplies to send along, Killian finally exposes much more of his hand than he intends. In an instant, he goes from overly-attentive friend to obviously-boyfriend. In the middle of the hygiene products, Mary Margaret grabs a box of feminine products for Emma, and without a thought Killian shakes his head and takes them back out of the cart. Back they go on the shelf, and he selects the correct ones in the process and adds them to the pile. He makes sure to include a package of the sanitary wipes she prefers, as well, before turning and wandering to the location of their next item.

“How do you know which ones are right? It took David forever to get the correct brand,” Mary Margaret says, eyeing him carefully.

“No offense to your soul mate, love, but he also tends to forget which deodorant he prefers until he’s already rolled on the wrong one.”

“True.” She goes silent again for a moment while they grab a couple boxes of Emma’s beloved Pop Tarts. “Killian, are you and Emma together?”

“Hmm?” He’s reading the nutrition information on the side of the box, wishing for nothing more than to make her something from his own menu, when the words she’s just asked finally register. “So,” he says neutrally, “how about that thing that changes the subject?

She makes a sound of irritation and follows after him to the next aisle. “Fine then, keep your not-really-a-fucking-secret relationship to yourself. Just know that we’re here for you if you need us.” She wanders ahead to the other end of the row after she says it, giving him a minute to collect himself.

They become partners in sending packages, teaming up with Ruby when she has widespread requests from the unit or has something small to include for Mulan. They get contributions from patrons at Granny’s diner every time they walk in, and Killian has never been so happy for flat rate boxes in his entire life.

Time without Emma moves as if the world barely revolves without her daily presence. He goes to work, he goes home, he sleeps. He wakes up. He repeats it all again. It sometimes takes him weeks to venture out of his apartment to do something other than work, but he does little more than mope into his cheeseburger while David grimaces every time Killian sighs and hoards the onion rings all onto his plate.

He tries to limit that behavior to the first month of her being gone. After that, he’s far too busy to really concentrate on his own misery. It turns out the bride that demanded a cookie table the year before had spoken highly of their picturesque location to all of her friends, all of whom are apparently also getting married, all of whom also want tables loaded with cookies made by the locals. Lucky for him, he has more than a night’s notice for these events, and he also has Belle to supplement the work he can’t do himself.

Regina tugs him aside the day after their fourth wedding in a row, explaining that if they can keep up this kind of business through the rest of the summer, then she might finally be able to eliminate Hades’ position as financier. If anything was going to light a fire under his arse, it was definitely going to be that information. No quarterly tasting menus that turn into insult festivals is something he could get behind.

Every Saturday in July ends up booked for destination weddings, the scenic Maine seaside location offering everything the couples are looking for. It not only increases business to the country club, but also boosts several other businesses as well. Suddenly, there’s not a single vacant room at Granny’s Inn during the weekends. The restaurants and cafes are all waitlisted, the patios are filled with people enjoying the mild weather, or wandering the beach, or shopping their small boardwalk.  

On his days off, which are few and far between, he schedules time to chat with Emma via Skype, savoring each moment he gets to see her face through the grainy quality of the video. Those days are also set aside to help fulfill his duties as Best Man for David and Mary Margaret’s wedding. He takes on the challenge of helping them pick out their menu, and inspecting the kitchens at their venue of choice when they finally decide on the fairy tale castle of their dreams.

It all keeps him busy, so that time moves minimally quicker, which is nice when he’s missing someone as much as he’s missing Emma. When he closes down the club more often than the bartenders, he worries that he’s overworking himself, but it doesn’t stop him from doing it.

He has the chance to stand in the halfway house bar when it’s all emptied out one night, staring out through the open garage doors to the lights on the lake, thinking about that time he swore he would tell Emma he loved her in that exact spot. He swears to bring her back when she gets home and tell her the moment he gets a chance, finally paying her back for the hasty admission of her love when she left.

When he gets home that night, there’s a small package from Emma waiting for him and he smiles fondly as he settles in to get it opened up. Inside the box is a familiar sight; his chef’s coat is neatly folded inside.

His brows furrow in confusion, and he lifts the coat out of the box, only to spot a thumb drive beneath it. He walks over to his kitchen table where his computer has taken up residence during Emma’s deployment and gets it started up so he can plug it in. There are two folders and a singular document titled “Open Me First” which he does.

There’s one line in the document: _Told you. Payback is a bitch._

He closes out of that and goes to the first folder with a simple title of ‘1’ and opens it. The sight that greets him has all of the air whooshing out of his lungs at once, a hungry noise tearing out at the same time as his eyes go wide. They’re pictures, and if the count at the bottom of the folder is to be believed, there are 63 images in this batch. Various patches of Emma’s skin are visible in each of them, the coat in question the only thing she’s wearing becoming more and more obvious as he clicks through the images.

The first few are her posing in front of a cheap mirror they hung on the back of their trailer’s door, her legs slim and bare beneath it. There’s a series of her pulling the one edge and each of the safety knots giving way to reveal her breasts and lack of underwear. He palms his growing erection when her hands start traveling in the images, with her on the bed in the open coat.

If this is the first folder, he’s not sure he can handle the second, but he goes back and clicks on it anyway. This one is a single video and it’s clear by the open coat that she made it in the interim between the standing photos and the ones in bed.

“Hi,” she says with a little grin when the video starts up. “So a couple months ago, you sent me a really great e-mail with some pictures and I finally got a day off. While I have the trailer to myself, I thought I’d return the favor. Bonus, you’ll get a video of it all as well as the pictures.”

She settles back after that, and he watches as she snaps a few photos before she gets to work on herself, her hands kneading her breasts before continuing downwards. He watches with rapt attention as she slips her fingers between her legs, taking a couple more pictures and glancing over at the camera on her laptop when she finds a particularly good rhythm.

He comes in his chef pants at his kitchen table when Emma bites the collar of the coat to stifle her own completion, and it’s only when he inspects it later that he can see the teeth-marks she left behind. The message he sends her after he’s cleaned up explains it all: _You’re right, I couldn’t handle it._

-x-

Killian has to celebrate their one-year anniversary alone, and wonders if it can really be considered their one-year if she’s been gone for all but three and a half months of it. It still counts, though, so he sends her a video message, making sure to find another way to skirt around telling her he loves her, holding tight to his stubbornness on waiting to say it when she’s back in his arms. He proceeds to lock his liquor cabinet after that, not in the mood for that big of a hangover when he has to be at the country club early for a meeting with Regina.

He doesn’t feel right when he wakes up, though. Doesn’t feel as focused as he normally is when he parks his truck. The back door is unlocked when he gets there, so he ducks downstairs to check the kitchen quickly before he heads to Regina’s office. He knocks lightly on the doorframe to announce his presence and enters when she waves him in.

“You’re here earlier than I expected,” Regina comments as she keeps her eyes on her computer monitor. “Just give me five more minutes. Pick out your new uniforms while you wait.” Without looking, she pushes a catalogue in his direction.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this unscheduled meeting? Hades isn’t going to show up and breathe down my neck while we talk, is he?”

“He did get _really close_ during that last meeting, didn’t he?”

Instead of answering, Killian makes a noise and shifts around, trying to get comfortable in the plush chair on the other side of Regina’s desk. Many a meeting has he sunk low into one of these chairs, never having a problem achieving a comfortable stance without trying. Today, however, seems to be an off day.

When Regina finishes whatever she was working on, she turns off the computer monitor to focus all her attention back on Killian.

“You look like shit, Jones.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mrs. Mills-Hood.”

Hearing the hyphenated last name obviously still does the trick, because the stern woman smiles and softens her previous stance. “ _Anyway_ , the reason I asked you here is to introduce you to my sister, but she’s running late.”

“You have a sister?” In all the years he’s worked for her, this detail somehow never came up.

“Half-sister. She’s a little crazy, so I don’t publicize the fact that I’m related to her. She’s lived in Kansas for a while, which doesn’t help the whole ‘crazy’ thing.”

“My apologies to Kansas,” he says, enjoying the sisterly love he can hear in her voice, even below the words of vexation.

“She’s going to be staying with me for a couple months as we work on the next big adventure.”

“Oh?”

“Gold is opening up the old banquet center across the lake. He wants me to start offering up larger wedding packages starting next summer. It’s been dormant for about fifteen years, so the renovations have just begun. Zelena is a catering chef and will be helping with the hiring and training to make the creations that come out of your brain to be made in larger quantities without breaking the budget.”

“Sorry for being so late, I was standing outside the doorway eavesdropping to make sure you weren’t speaking ill of me again,” a red-head says, sweeping into the room with a flourish.

“Finally,” Regina mutters, otherwise ignoring what the other woman has said. “Killian, meet my eccentric sister, Zelena. Zelena, this is my broody and very much attached to another woman executive chef.”

“Pity, he would’ve made a nice looking affair while I was in town.”

He would protest, or joke, anything at all in response to the two women, but at that exact moment his stomach heaves and Killian shoots out of the chair to grab the small trashcan next to Regina’s desk. He can hear the commotion of both of them moving at once, but he’s too busy slumping down the wall and closing his eyes, both of which feel far better than they reasonably should.

From her position in the doorway, Zelena makes a noise of disappointment. “Certainly the first time I’ve gotten _that_ response to that joke.”

He’s going to enjoy working with the lass, as soon as the room stops spinning around him, that is.

-x-

“C’mon, old bean. I can barely lift my five-year-old anymore. Surely I can’t lift your fat arse to get you out of here.”

It’s hilarious, really, because he’s younger and lighter than Robin, but the other man seems to have forgotten both of these facts as he taps Killian’s cheeks repeatedly in an attempt to revive him.

“If you keep smacking me, I will tell Roland that there’s no such thing as Santa Claus and that you’ve been hiding this from him since birth.” His voice is hoarse and strained, his stomach filled with what feels like piles of rocks, and he feels clammy and hot all at the same time.

“You worried us there for a minute, mate.” This comes from somewhere by his feet, where Will is apparently lounging about. “I asked if I could drive you to the hospital and make the siren sounds with the windows down, but they wouldn’ let me.”

“How bloody long was I out?” Killian asks, finally cracking his eyes open to look at either of them. He’s still in Regina’s office, still by the wall he went down earlier, but he’s laid out on his side. There’s no sign of either Regina or Zelena, but he’s sure he’ll never hear the end of this.

“Just a few minutes. I was outside checking to make sure they closed the pool properly over the weekend when Regina ran out.”

“And Belle came in early to make the samples for your friends’ cake tasting today, so I decided to keep her company.”

“Right,” Robin and Killian say in unison.

“A likely story,” Killian finishes, doing his best to grin at his sous chef.

“C’mon then, mate. We’re gonna get you home. Regina’s banished you from work for the next two days while she disinfects her office.” Killian accepts the hand that Robin holds out to him, allowing him to do most of the work to get Killian standing again. Will grabs the now-sullied trash can and hands it to him.

“Just in case,” he explains. “I’ll be following in your truck.”

He just barely manages to convince them to stop so Robin can grab him some supplies, and then he’s being bundled into his apartment with strict instructions to take it easy.

Amongst the fever dreams and trips to the bathroom to empty his already destitute stomach, he realizes that this is the first time he’s gotten sick without Emma there to take care of him since the day they met. But he also finds that his support network has grown in numbers since those days. It helps to be friends with the boss’s husband, and the staff that works with you on a daily basis. He even gets a text from Regina telling him to get well soon, and to not bring back the trash can.

Mary Margaret checks in on him the next day, forcing him to clean himself up in the shower while she remakes his bed and starts laundering his sheets. He still can’t hold down solid food, but she brings him homemade broth and Pedialyte, claiming that it’s better than the sportsdrinks he got from the corner store.

He makes sure to send a flower arrangement to Regina when he’s officially on the mend, the note simply apologizing about her trash can and indicating that he’s looking forward to the banquet opportunities that are around the corner.

By the time he goes back to work, still weak and on a steady diet of rice and broth, he has a full line of ideas to bring to the table on the banquet menu, and a very high appreciation for all the friends he’s made in this town over the years.

-x-

The time leading up to Mary Margaret and David’s wedding seems to go faster than any of the time that Emma’s been gone, and he only wishes she could be there to be part of it all. He doesn’t see the dress that Emma would’ve worn until the day of the wedding, and while the apple color looks absolutely fitting on the one they usually call “Red” it would’ve looked just as stunning with Emma’s hair and skin tone.

Even more breathtaking than that is the bride herself, gliding down the aisle in a dress that looks like it was specially made to fit her. The organza overlay extends across her shoulders to create short sleeves with lace detailing that looks like leaves, and the same trim lines the bottom of the veil attached to a headband in her pixie-cut hair. Her bouquet, a mixture of autumn-colored flowers, melds nicely with the cream color of the dress.

He glances at David’s face as she walks down the pristine ivory runner. The groom looks completely gob smacked, as if the vision walking towards him isn’t real, something ethereal instead of tangible, and as if he’s either entirely undeserving or the luckiest man alive. It brings a smile to Killian’s face – the most genuine one he’s had in a while – and he claps his friend on the shoulder in solidarity.

The ceremony is that perfect blend of short and just long enough, by no means the nuptial masses he’s attended before, but not a speedy process. He notices that Ruby cries a little more than he would’ve thought she would at weddings, but he also wonders if the absence of her partner is a contributing factor to the errant sniffles he hears. While he’ll head back down the aisle alone, per Mary Margaret’s insistence that they always leave the space that Emma would’ve occupied, he makes sure to pull his handkerchief and hand it off to Kristoff to give to Ruby on their way out of the small chapel.

They’re free to spend an hour relaxing at the venue after the initial pictures are taken. He’s incredibly glad that the tweed suits David picked are the softer version, instead of the itchier kind he remembers trying on for fitting, because he’s less inclined to tear out of the garments the moment he enters his rented room. Instead he just strips off the jacket before he sits down heavily at the desk the room comes with, fingering the zipper pull on the personalized leather shave-kit bags David had bestowed them with this morning. He tries to keep his focus on the evening, how useful the bloody thing is instead of a tie clip, anything that will keep him in the here and now instead of letting his mind wander too far.

Mostly, he fails, though. His eyes glaze over as he stares at the bag, thinking of Emma. He hasn’t heard from her in days, barely got response back from the birthday messages he sent her, and he’s grasping to Ruby’s advice like a lifeline. This is the longest she’s gone quiet, but she’s okay. She has to be okay.

Still, he pulls his flask from the shave-kit and takes a long drag from it. He could soak in ultimate indulgence and smoke the cigar that came in the kit. Emma loves the lingering smell of them, but can’t stand to be around them as they’re smoked. Maybe he’ll save it for a day where she can catch the straggling smell, press her nose to that spot on the side of his neck that immediately starts the gears turning to her taking him to bed – because that’s how it goes most of the time.

Not that he doesn’t initiate his fair share of the sex (case in point, the now-infamous sexting incident), but Killian has definitely discovered that he enjoys it when Emma rocks the boat. She is carnal and impatient, and passionate – so bloody passionate he can barely comprehend it – and he’s already looking forward to the moment when she’s back in his arms, in this town, in this state, in this bloody country when she will make small waves in their personal flotation device, throw him over the side, and –

And he realizes he’s let most of the time before the reception’s cocktail hour go by the wayside daydreaming about Emma Swan. With another generous tip of his flask, he stands up. He abandons his suit jacket, leaving the red shirt and suspenders exposed, and makes sure his obliging best-man smile is in place as he caps the flask and stashes it away again.

There’s a lot of Killian hovering around his seat at the head table. He attempts to be as accommodating to the newly married as he possibly can be, especially since Ruby still hasn’t come back to the hall, and Kristoff is off canoodling with Anna somewhere. He breaks away at one point, when their sweet nuzzles and cavity-inducing smiles get to be a touch too much for a man who hasn’t even held his girlfriend in eight months, and they almost look apologetic as he quietly excuses himself after dropping off drinks for the both of them.

He’s in the restroom when the music suddenly cuts out, and there’s a noise of surprise, and he’s sure it’s just some grand gesture that Dave’s put together for his new bride, so he takes his time washing his hands and making sure his hair is still in order. The rum from earlier has all but worn off, and all he can think is how much he needs a drink of his own to continue up the happy façade he’s had going.

It's not that he isn’t happy, he thinks as he wanders out of the bathrooms. It’s just that this is the first time he’s had to relax in a while, to not stress over work, and it’s obvious more now than ever that Emma’s not here to share in this day.

At first he barely registers what he’s looking at on the other side of the room. Mary Margaret is smother-hugging someone, and David has his arms around both of them, his hand on the waterfall of blonde hair like he’s seen him do to Emma in the past.

It hits him like a ton of bricks. Mary Margaret and David Nolan are both crying or on the verge of it and holding onto a blonde, and he can see Ruby on the outskirts, smiling with tears in her eyes and her hand possessively clutching Mulan’s. David looks up to see him at that moment, the relief and love and astonishment plain in his expression, and he smiles. Mary Margaret is saying something to her and laughing through her tears before she, too, looks over her shoulder to see Killian watching.

And then she turns. She turns and his heart stops, because he has seen her hair around every corner. He’s heard her laugh in the kitchen when none of his chefs even sound remotely like her. He’s gotten a whiff of her perfume when he’s grocery shopping, at the book store, when he walks from his kitchen to the living room when he’s finished doing his dishes and cleaning the counters. Ghost after ghost of the woman he loves creeping around while he knows she’s still months from his arms.

But there she is.

“Swan,” he whispers out loud, and even though she can’t hear him, he sees the subtle change in her smile, the features of her face softening as she wipes her eyes, and he’s in motion before he remembers he has legs. His lips are crashing into hers before he can stop himself, and while he hears the crowd’s obvious approval, he can’t find a flying fuck to give about any of it. Because Emma Swan is wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him harder.

-x-

When he looks back at the reception later, Killian will remember that one defining moment as the center point of the evening. Everything that happens after revolves around the fact that Emma is there with him. She gives a speech during dinner that moves just about every guest to tears, and spends the length of the festivities with her hand in his, or her arm linked around his, or pressed against his side, and no one says a damn word.

He’s sure the questions will follow, once the hubbub dies down to a faint buzz, but for this one night, no one asks a single question about their relationship or the fact that Emma is here early, or at all. It’s purely about celebration. And if he smiles a little more, and if they all perhaps drink a little more in all variations of celebration that they can, no one blinks an eye. That’s what weddings are for, after all.

“Killian,” Emma says, tugging on one of his suspenders suddenly at one point. “Killian are these mini grilled cheese points with tomato soup chasers?”

“That they are, my love. Inspired by you and our lovely autumn theme,” he tells her honestly. It was Mary Margaret who found the idea, running it by the catering chef and Killian with a sly smile on her face.

She fawns over them for a few minutes, making sure to hug Mary Margaret as tight as she can over the little delight. “You guys didn’t tell me about these! Why didn’t I get the memo?”

“We didn’t want you to get mad at us for eating something we knew you’d love while you were stuck eating MRE’s,” Ruby chirps as she passes by, winking and smiling at Emma. It’s increasingly clear that Ruby has been in on the homecoming for some time, especially considering the fact that Emma is in her bridesmaid’s dress. Her matching necklace, Mary Margaret’s gift to her girls, is even in place. The last he heard, that was stashed in the Nolan household, waiting for her arrival home.

With a reassuring squeeze to Emma’s hand in his, he breaks away momentarily to hug the brunette in question, whispering his thanks to her in her hair.

At the end of the night, there’s far less people left behind to filter back to their rooms (or the bridal suite, which the married couple leer over plenty of times) but there’s still another round of tight hugs and a few grateful tears. Emma follows him automatically, leaning heavily against his side in her obvious exhaustion.

Despite the fact that she is here, and she’s in his arms, there’s no rush on either part to immediately fuck each other, and Killian is actually a little relieved. He’s utterly beside himself that she’s here, that she has kissed him so many times in front of the world, as far as he’s concerned. But he wants, and he wants to take his time with it.

As if reading his thoughts, Emma pulls him down just enough to rest her forehead against his. “Tomorrow?” she asks.

He hums and nods against her. “Too tired,” he says, and turns his face away just enough as a yawn comes over him again.

“Too drunk,” she responds, laughing softly at the both of them. She tilts her chin up and kisses him, some delicate balance between soft and sinful, and he feels the tears at the corners of his eyes at the thought that she’s here, she’s home, and it’s going to be extremely difficult to go to work on Monday.

Coming back to their surroundings, Emma looks around and deflates with a heavy sigh.

“What’s wrong?”

“My bag got delivered to Ruby and Mulan’s room. I don’t care about my contacts. It’s time to switch them. But my clothes for tomorrow are in there.”

“We can call them in the morning before breakfast so you don’t have to wear this beautiful dress to eat crepes. For now, I have clothes for you to sleep in.”

She murmurs her thanks against his lips when she kisses him again.

He gets to help her unwind the dress, brushing his fingertips reverently over her skin as he does. In return, Emma peels off the suspenders he’s wearing, her hands gliding over his pecs and up along his shoulders, down his arms and back up to unfasten a few of the buttons he’s left closed. He’s half-hard by the time she’s done, but he makes no push to continue down the path they’ve promised for the following day.

Instead, he wordlessly digs out the garments for her to change into, kissing her once on the cheek and ushering her towards the bathroom to get cleaned up and changed for bed. She comes back a couple minutes later, squinting around with her face devoid of make-up and her hair falling completely free around her shoulders. He helps just a little, guiding her to the bed so she won’t stub any toes in her attempt to get there without vision correction.

When he finishes his own nightly routine, she’s half asleep on the side of the bed he’s used to seeing her sleep on, and he feels complete for the first time since she left. With that sense that everything is finally where it belongs again, with the knowledge that his heart will go to sleep next to her heart tonight, he moves easily to shut off the light and climb into bed. She reaches for his hand as soon as he’s settled, placing a sleepy kiss to his knuckles before she’s fast asleep.

As it goes, they don’t even make it to morning to wait. Since he wanted it to be at Emma’s pace, he’s surprised when he wakes up to her lips on his shoulder, trailing their way up to his neck as she presses close. The moonlight coming in through the window is enough to illuminate her features in the dark, and he takes a moment to observe her until one hand travels down his torso to stroke his cock from outside his underwear and that’s enough to wake him up the rest of the way.

His t-shirt gets delicately removed from her shoulders and thrown off the side of the bed, both of them shucking pairs of his boxers as greedy hands reach for places they haven’t touched since she was in Boston.

“Condom?” he asks as she moves to climb on top of him.

“You didn’t think I’d come back and not come prepared, did you?” she asks, her incredulity full of endearment as she reaches for the clutch she left on the night stand and pulls out a couple small foil wrappers. “Brought a couple, just in case.”

She already has one ripped open and is rolling it on before he can move, and then she’s ever so slowly sliding down the length of him, relaxing to adjust to him as she goes. They both sigh when she’s settled on top of him, a sound of reuniting and contentment.

It’s a hell of a time to notice it, but he realizes that the hips he’s grabbing are far more angular than he’s used to. Looking down in the faint light, everything is sharp and tight. He’s used to her being fit, but this is almost a whole new level. He’s not sure he could even pinch an inch if he tried.

“You seem to have left your curves back in Afghanistan, love,” he says, just as his hands slide over her thighs and find much the same structure waiting for him.

She twists her hips, clenching her inner muscles as she does so and drawing a moan from him. He can see that wicked smile, and she leans over him so her breasts press against his chest, still just as supple and soft as he remembers them.

“Gimme a month, and I’m planning on having them all back. One solid month of eating whatever I want. I don’t want to see a fucking cantaloupe for at least a year, okay?” She pushes herself back into a sitting position, widening her knees so she drops down further so she can take him all the way in. She sets the pace and all he can do is follow as she braces her hands on his chest, her blunt fingernails digging into his skin as she continues. “And no chicken, for at least a month.”

“Tell me whatever you want and it’s yours, Emma,” he admits, and definitely means more than just food.

“Touch me,” she sighs out, and he immediately complies. “I need burgers and fish, and fresh vegetables. Piles of fresh fruit. Cake. Cold beers. Veggie mess. Killian, I need you to make me veggie mess when we get home,” Emma tells him, her voice bordering on desperate as she presses her hand against where his fingers are rubbing over and around her clit.

He knows she’s about to climax when she stops, her eyes training right on him as her brows furrow and she bites her lip to stifle the noises he looks forward to hearing when they’re not staying in a public venue again. She gasps his name as she finally comes, her whole body tightening around him, gripping him tight and bringing him over the edge with her.

Breathing hard, she drops to her elbows to kiss him, deep and long, and then she smiles wide above him. “Well,” she says, her voice light and joyful, “I think that more than makes up for ‘welcome back,’ as well as ‘happy birthday and anniversary’ all rolled into one.”

“I think we have a long way to make up for all of the above, Swan.” Her laugh is low and throaty, and it awakes his hunger once more, but he knows they both need to sleep, and that they’re a long way from the quiet reunion they’ll both be craving after the buzz of this night dies down. When he shifts to pull out of her, though, despite being soft and them both being spent, she halts his movements.

“Just another minute. I just need another minute,” she pleads, and he relaxes beneath her. He reaches up to run his fingers through her hair, to frame her face with his palms and thumb at the corner of her smile. She sighs, nuzzling into his hand and turning her head to kiss his palm. “I missed you,” she murmurs, leaning down to kiss him again.

“I missed you, love. More than words can properly express.” He pauses, takes a deep breath and vaguely wishes the lights were on and they were maybe a touch less exhausted for the moment, but before he can open his mouth to say what he’s about to say, she’s pushing off of him. As he watches, Emma slides off the bed, only stumbling slightly (and who’s to say whether that’s lingering exhaustion or alcohol, at this point?) as she reaches for the switch on the lamp.

“Wait, no. I wanna say it first,” she says in a rush, clambering back onto the bed and laying down against his side. “I love you, Killian. And I’m sorry that the first time I said it, I couldn’t see the expression on your face, but the one you have now kind of makes up for it.” She reaches out and lets her fingers skim over his cheek and dimples.

He briefly closes his eyes, huffing out a small laugh and leaning onto his side to pull her close and kiss her again. “Emma, I love you. Have loved you. Will continue to love you for as long as you’ll allow me.”

“Really?”

“Aye,” he answers without hesitation. “Now sleep, my love. We have all the time in the world.”

“So I shouldn’t volunteer to go to the DLI in a year? Learn some languages? Move to California?” She runs her fingers over his ribs as she says it so he’ll know she’s joking, and he grunts and squirms from the playful action.

“Only if it’s what you wish, Swan,” he says, giving her the honest answer over a return jibe.

“I wish to have some peace and quiet for a little bit. Or as much as Storybrooke will allow me,” she gives back. He agrees with the sentiment, even as he slides out of the warmth of the bed momentarily to turn the light back off. Before he can even settle himself behind her fully, she’s already asleep again.

-x-

He wakes up before her when the sun’s rays are intruding on their room, and even though he’s pretty sure she sleeps through it, he still rubs a soothing hand over her bare shoulder and tells her he’ll be right back. With a quick text to Ruby, he’s wandering to the other wing of guest rooms to collect Emma’s bag.

Ruby looks just about as exhausted as he is, so he just gives her a grateful smile and mouths ’ _thank you_ ’ before taking the bag and pulling the door shut for her.

Emma is still asleep when he gets back, but she’s just starting to exhibit signs that she’s waking up, so he sets her bag on the desk chair and returns to the bed. The jostling of the mattress is what pulls her closer to the surface of wakefulness. She yawns, big and leisurely, and opens her eyes slowly. When she catches sight of Killian, however, her eyes pop all the way open.

“Oh! Not a dream,” she breathes out, her smile brilliant beneath her bleary eyes.

“No, not a dream. There will be a freshly wed couple downstairs in forty-five minutes for breakfast, and I’m sure they would love to have the same reassurance, if you’re up for it.”

In lieu of an answer, she nods emphatically, briefly closing the scant space between them to kiss him just as hard as she did at the reception, but she breaks away to head to the shower, shooting him a grateful look when she spots her rucksack on the chair.

“The world would be a better place if everyone had their own Killian,” she tells him as she shoots a grin over her bare shoulder and heads off to the en-suite.

Unless it’s a day off after a particularly grueling shift, Killian is used to Emma’s showers being notoriously speedy. The other exception to that, of course, is when he’s involved in the shower, but he’s leaning back against the headboard waiting his turn, so he knows that’s not what’s taking her so long. He weighs whether or not he should check on her, trying to decide if it’s pushy if he does, callous if he doesn’t, and there’s no simple answer without just asking her.

He knocks lightly, first, not wanting to intrude in case she _is_ just trying to take an extra few minutes to herself, but she answers just loud enough to be heard over the water. The curtain that hides her is sheer at the top, so he sees that she’s just standing in the large tub. She’s facing the water, letting it hit her chest without making any moves to wash herself.

The faraway expression on her face is what prompts him to shuck the clothes he’d slipped on to retrieve her bag, and he climbs in behind her without a word. He reaches around her to grab for the shampoo they provided in the room, squeezing it into his palm before slowly working it into her damp hair. With a soft noise, she tilts her head back a little further. When it’s all thoroughly lathered, he gently urges her forward to rinse. The water runs clear after a few swipes of her hands and he’s about to repeat with the conditioner on the shelf, but she leans back against him, instead.

His arms wind around her, one hand resting on her waist as the other crosses over her chest to hug her to him. She clasps his arm in both her hands, resting her head back on his shoulder and absorbing as much heat from the water and his skin as she can.

“This is the first time I’ve felt warm in a month,” she tells him softly. “Coming home to fall is like going straight from the fiery depths of hell to the North Pole.”

“I have a sweatshirt in my bag. Long sleeve shirt as well. Help yourself to any layers you need, love.”

“Thank you, Killian,” she says, turning in his arms to make eye contact again. “Not just for that offer but just, all of this. I love you,” she tells him, and despite the fact that it’s now the third time she’s told him that, it still makes his heart speed up.

He leans forward to give her one light kiss, slicking her hair away from her face with one hand as he pulls back. “I love you, Swan. Whatever you need of me, it’s yours. Whether it’s my presence or absence, my comfort or distance. Whatever it is you need, love, you have it from me.”

“I think we’ve finally passed into the same sap level as David and Mary Margaret,” she comments, wrinkling her nose to show her thoughts on this.

“No, love. They’re far worse. Plus, they’re married now, which means it’ll be their usual saccharine behaviors on steroids, now.”

She pulls another face, rolling her eyes and turning back around. “Skip the conditioner for now. We’re already going to be late and there will probably be no less than four jokes about our delay being due to sex.”

Amazingly, though, there’s not a single comment again when they finally make it down to the dining room. Instead, they encounter all their closest friends nursing varying degrees of hangovers. Even when she pointedly grabs Killian’s hand after they’ve settled in their own chairs, there’s no mention. Just the overwhelming sensation that comes when a missing part has finally been returned home.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief heads up that there are mentions of character deaths that happen previous to the present storyline, for anyone who needs the info before heading in. xoxo

Breakfast is a little more real. It’s partly due to the fact that she’s no longer drunk, and partly because she and Mulan have that same glassy expression in their eyes no matter how hard they try to keep up with the conversation. But ten months is a long time to be away from people; their lives continued on as they were while Emma was uprooted, flown halfway around the world, and then dropped back in the middle of all of this.

Killian, because he’s Killian, immediately notices her discomfort, but she waves him off from asking about it while they’re all enjoying their meals. She still manages to get caught up on the latest gossip and bask in the pure love of her friends, which definitely brings her back to earth a little bit. But she can’t shake the feeling that she should be swelteringly hot. That she should be wearing her full uniform. That she should be getting ready for patrol or shift change or checking up on her roommate.

Instead, she’s shoveling crepes into her mouth like someone is trying to take them away from her while she’s absolutely swimming in Killian’s sweatshirt. She’s still cold, but this is the best she’s getting for the moment. The minute she gets back to Storybrooke, she’s diving under a pile of blankets.

When the conversation turns to going home, the idea of being left alone in her apartment suddenly seizes her. She has not been alone for more than a couple hours since the hotel room she was in during her stay in Boston. Even in Jersey, they were practically layered on top of one another in the barracks. At least Mulan and Ruby share a residence. She won’t have to struggle with that, just every other aspect of reintegration into civilian life.

“I do believe Ruby mentioned that she’s been sneaking your stuff back into your apartment during her last couple visits, so it should all be there for you. Hidden,” he adds with emphasis, “but there.” This conversation happens on the brief drive from the bed and breakfast back into Storybrooke.

Before he can even pass up his own building, however, Emma clears her throat and sucks up her courage. “You uh, mind if I stay at yours? I mean, mine’s still all dusty. And there’s no food in the cupboards or fridge.”

“Of course, love. Stay as long as you wish. I just thought you might wish for your own bed again.”

“The bed can wait. I’d much rather spend a little longer with you.”

“Will you be all right while I head to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I can go back to mine, get the place cleaned up and unpacked. Maybe grocery shop. Maybe come back here and take naughty pictures in your bed and send them your way.” She’s glad the banter between them has always been easy for her. This feels more like coming home than anything else, as does his laughter in response. He rests his hand on her knee, the warmth of his palm sinking through the leggings she threw on before they left, and it’s as easy as blinking to place her hand over his and relax into the seat until they pull up to his building.

Since he didn’t wash himself when they showered earlier, he heads toward his bathroom almost immediately. She settles onto his couch while he’s in there, throwing a plush blanket over her shoulders with another one on her lap for extra warmth. She must space out again before he gets back, because she doesn’t even realize he’s entered the living room, hair still damp and looking refreshed in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, until he’s gently nudging her forward so he can slide into his spot in the corner. She moves, then, and they shift around for a minute until they’re both comfortable, sprawled across the springy surface that she missed so much.

“So,” he says when they’ve done nothing more than comfortably breathe for a couple minutes. His apartment is quiet, other than the ticking of the clock on the wall by the door. “What do you suppose the hardest part of transitioning back is going to be?”

She thinks about the question for so long that he actually jumps a little when she begins answering, as he probably thought she fell asleep as she rests against his chest.

“I’ll have to pay for food and bottled water again. I’ll have to drive my own car and pay for the gas, which is just such a weird concept at this point. The Bug is still running, right?”

“Aye, I took her out every other week for a short drive to keep her in shape for you. Just drove her to work on Friday, in fact, so the tank is topped off right now, as well.”

“Cool. So there’s that. And choosing my own clothes will be weird. Don’t let me wear tan unless it’s drill weekend for a while. I’m going to gravitate towards it by habit. Not having a weapon on me at all times is also going to be weird, not gonna lie.”

She shifts to sit up. Now that she has the ball rolling, it all starts tumbling out of her at once.

“This is a good one. No public showers. Like, I can just leave my soap in the shower, not wear shoes in there, and nobody else will be in the bathroom.” She looks up at him, her lips tilting up as she catches his eye. “You’re an exception, obviously.”

He smiles back, shifting up to sit up across from her, both of them cross-legged on his couch and facing each other.

“I get to have my cell phone on me again. And it’s going to take a while until I remember I can just call people and talk to them anytime instead of having to plan it. I’ll jingle when I have change again instead of the weird cardboard coin-ish things we had. The weather is going to be a pain in the ass, especially since I got back right when it’s getting cold and I am just always going to be cold. There will be actual fucking seasons here.”

“Keep talking, I’m going to make you hot chocolate.”

She sighs in happiness, ready for these kinds of comforts to be back in her life. “I get to wear my hair down,” she comments, pulling a chunk over her shoulder to run her fingers through the slight waves left over from it drying naturally. “I can order takeout. You can make me _food_ ,” she emphasizes, realizing that the meals they talked about last night are all entirely conceivable now.

“The smokers will finally stop bitching so much about the price of cigarettes,” she adds on when Killian walks back in the room. She graciously accepts the steaming mug, bringing it close to her nose to just inhale the scent for a little bit.

“Is that all then? Just that tiny little list?”

“That’s all I can think of off the top of my head. Give it a couple weeks, I’m sure there will be more.”

While she finishes the warm drink in her hands, Killian fills her in on even more bits and pieces that didn’t fit anywhere in his e-mails. He tells her about the banquet center, which is probably the most exciting thing, only because she’s looking forward to an end to the Hades meetings almost as much as he is. By the time the mug is empty, Emma’s eyes are getting heavy and Killian tugs her up from the couch to urge her into the bed, instead.

She wants to ask him to stay, and opens her mouth to say as much, but she yawns instead. It turns out she doesn’t have to ask, because he perches on the side of the bed, reassuring her that he’ll be there when she wakes up, but he wants to let her sleep on her own for a little bit before he joins her.

“When you wake up,” he promises, “there will be Veggie Mess waiting for you, as well.”

She might respond with a sighed out _‘excellent’_ but it comes out more muffled than anything, and Killian just chuckles quietly as he checks to make sure she’s fully cocooned before turning out the light.

-x-

There are people from all walks of life that have found their way to Storybrooke. Will Scarlet blew in one summer on a beat-up motorcycle. He applied for a job at the club on a chance, trained but having spent the last several years doing manual labor instead of his calling. Killian hired him on a trial basis as the off season began, and before the tourists started pouring in that summer, he was already promoted to sous chef.

Emma came along because of David, whose mother lived on the outskirts of town on a small farm before she passed away after David returned from college. Mary Margaret was born and raised here, a small town girl who only left long enough to go to college so she could come back and teach at the middle school her mother taught at before she passed away at a young age.

Regina wound up in Storybrooke after a series of anxiety attacks at her high-strung job made her re-think her career choices, especially coming off the tail end of her fiancé’s death from a brain aneurysm. To say that incident opened her eyes about the path she was headed down was a bit of an understatement, and so she set her sights on something her mother would be proud of: opening her own high-end business in a place where the stress was manageable.

Robin and his son found their way to town when their car broke down outside the limits while they were on a camping trip. He’d only planned to stay a few days, but found that after the passing of his own wife that he preferred the peace and quiet the small town had to offer, especially while he was at the tail end of his grieving. Even if it had been three years since his first love had passed after giving birth to their little Roland, he still found it impossible that he would meet anyone to spend his days. He met Regina on his second day in town, and though he knew he’d always miss Marion, he was immediately smitten with the woman whose eyes showed the same pain.

Killian was pulled almost directly from culinary school on the recommendation of one of his culinary instructors, which he would later discover was Regina’s mother. Cora passed shortly after he got the job and moved, but he found that he would always be thankful for the warped guidance she gave him.

And surprisingly, there was Archie. The small-time psychiatrist mostly catered to children, and he spent a lot of time with behavioral problems, but with his quiet demeanor and soft-spoken words, it was hard to remember that he was originally in the Navy. His degree would eventually land him a clinical position in his branch of the military, helping rehabilitate returning servicemen, but when he retired from his position, he meandered his way through the country and ended up in Storybrooke, Maine.

This is something even Emma forgot, despite knowing the man also had military experience, until a week after her return to town when she and Killian are walking down Main Street on their way to Granny’s from the movie theater.

“Miss Swan!”

She turns when she hears her name, called in that same calming tone she’s heard Archie use so many times before. “Hi, Dr. Hopper. How are you?"

“I’m well, thanks for asking. I don’t want to keep you long, but I just wanted to welcome you home from your deployment. It’s good to have you back in town.”

“Thank you,” Emma responds, smiling warmly. It’s been nice having people welcome her back. After years of feeling like she wasn’t wanted in the foster system, it’s nice to know that people miss her when she’s gone from the place that she calls home.

“I wanted to remind you that I did a lot of counseling for returning military members. I know reintegration can be a difficult process. If you ever need to just talk or get anything off your chest, my door is always open to you.”

Her hand tightens in Killian’s with the exhilarating thought that this is a resource she has available to her without having to travel to Boston and go through the hassle of finding a counselor of her own. Killian is wonderful to talk to, but there are things that she can’t find the right way to express to him. There are situations that wouldn’t make sense to him, at all. So while he is the best listener she could’ve ever asked for, there are still aspects of her deployment that she can’t share with him, and there are concepts of her homecoming that he just couldn’t understand as a civilian.

“Thank you,” she finally tells Archie. There’s a lump in her throat as she speaks, but she swallows it and continues. “Thank you, Dr. Hopper. I’ll make sure to stop in sometime this week.”

Archie smiles, nodding his head in salutations to both her and Killian as he continues back the way he came. Killian tilts his head, raising an eyebrow in question to check that she’s okay, and he leans in to give her a kiss on the cheek when she nods and gives him a smile in reassurance.

“It’s so good to be home,” Emma remarks as they continue their walk to the diner.

At Granny’s, there’s a heaping pile of onion rings waiting for her almost as soon as she walks in the door. The hug that Granny gives her is borderline smothering, but it feels so good that Emma can only laugh into the older woman’s shoulder and thank her. The onion rings are even better than she remembers.

-x-

Emma keeps her word and walks into Archie’s office later that very week. He settles into his chair with a notepad and invites her to sit on the plush leather couch. He’s set aside an hour and a half for her first session with him, and one hour sessions to follow if she needs them as she readjusts.

“Start anywhere you’d like,” he tells her.

There’s a small coffee table in front of the couch where he’s placed a pitcher with ice water, and Emma pours herself a glass and plays with the condensation for several moments before she responds.

“I don’t really know where to start.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning, then, and we can take it from there. How did you get into the military?”

Her cheeks puff out as she blows out a breath. “Well, that actually starts years before I every signed on the dotted line. Which, I feel like that was a total letdown. Mine wasn’t dotted, it was an electronic signature pad. Who even came up with the concept of the dotted line?” When she realizes she’s rambling, she looks up at Archie, who isn’t quite laughing at her, but it’s a close thing.

“It can be a nerve-wracking process. Take your time,” he reassures her.

With another calming breath, she centers her thoughts on what started it all.

“I was an orphan. Found on the side of the road, in and out of foster homes all my life, and none of that matters except for the last foster family I had before getting stuck in group homes until I aged out. The Swan family sent me back after they conceived a child of their own, and I kept the name years down the road to remind myself that there was no such thing as hope. And then I almost got adopted by a woman named Ingrid and her husband, who took in a lot of foster kids over the years.”

She sips the water for comfort more than necessity before continuing. “Ingrid liked the problem children. She liked finding a way to bring us around to being pillars of the community instead of delinquents.”

Emma describes her life at Ingrid’s, which was something more than any other foster home she had. She was fifteen when she went to live there, intent on running away after the first night when a bully got in her face within the first hour. Ingrid, in her patient way, gave her the perfect retaliation in case he picked on her again, and Emma found after that she didn’t want to leave. This was the closest thing she’d ever had to home.

Ingrid’s husband was a recruiter with the army, and he was there for several months before starting his own deployment. She joined Ingrid for the phone calls he was able to make every couple months, squeezing herself next to her foster mother in order to overhear as much of the conversation as she could. She didn’t really have dreams and aspirations to follow in her foster father’s footsteps, but she was intrigued by his world away from home.

There was talk, when Emma turned sixteen, that Ingrid wanted to adopt her. They just wanted to wait for her husband to come home so they could finalize the paperwork. When he got back, however, he announced that he was leaving. Ingrid and Emma both sat stunned at the kitchen table while the other foster children almost dejectedly started packing their bags, knowing exactly what this meant for them. But this was supposed to be Emma’s home. She was supposed to stay here until she graduated from high school, until she went off to college and came home for breaks to tell her new mom all about what was going on in her life. Looking at Ingrid at that moment, she saw the woman’s heart break, could see the walls building up as her husband grabbed a duffel of his own belongings and walked out the door.

She was back in a group home by the end of the week. She and the lost boys and girls, the ones who Ingrid had painstakingly rehabilitated, all returned in one fell swoop. A couple of them aged out of the system after that. A few others got picked up by other foster parents. Emma, however, spent the rest of her high school days within the walls of the group home.

Until she met Neal, of course.

Five days before her graduation ceremony was scheduled, she met Neal at the coffee shop around the corner from the group home she would have to vacate by the end of the month. And she thought he was it. He was the rest of her life. He looked at her like the sun shone out of her ass, and it was that enamored expression which made her skip the ceremony and give the school a PO box to send her diploma.

But they were poor. In love, but poor. And when she turned eighteen, he scraped together the last of their funds so they could stay in a nicer hotel than the cheap motels they usually crashed in before housekeeping could kick them out. She didn’t have much to compare it to at the time, but it was the most special night she could’ve asked for.

One thing led to another, and soon they were ripping off corner stores left and right to get a meal. But they didn’t have a home, and they didn’t have regular food, and they didn’t stay anywhere long enough that Emma could’ve gotten a job. Neal, it turns out, was wanted in too many places to have a legal job. He was always looking over one shoulder, and it just got worse the longer they spent together, the longer they ran.

Neal pitched a job – the one that would set them for life – and she went for it because they were out of options. She wanted a bed that no one else had ever slept in, and this was the only way that it was going to happen. Neal had been scoping a jeweler for weeks, and knew the exact time the man that ran the shop disappeared without locking the place up. All they had to do was walk in when he went to the back room, take a handful of watches, and get out of there.

“It wasn’t that easy, you know,” Emma says at length.

“It never is. No matter how simple something sounds, it never really is. Please, continue,” Archie prompts. He motions to the water again as she swallows heavily.

“So the old man goes to the back, and Neal and I go in as quietly as possible to not activate this bell he had over the door. And since I had the nimbler fingers, it was up to me to get the case opened as little as possible and pull out this line of watches, these big expensive things that I’m pretty sure even Mr. Hades wouldn’t be caught dead in.”

She tells him about the quick and effective end of her and Neal: the alarm trips, Neal bails, the old man catches Emma and locks the door until the police can get there. She never saw or heard from Neal ever again.

“You’re one of the most upstanding citizens I’ve ever met. Between the police and the army, how did that come about?” Archie sounds more like she’s reading him a thriller novel than recounting her life. There are few people who have heard the full tale, but she gets the same reaction every time and it has never failed to amuse her, even now.

“The old man couldn’t let me go after he’d already called the cops. He couldn’t betray his own morals. So, despite seeing how young I was, and knowing that it clearly wasn’t my idea, he still waited with me until the police showed. He did tell them to go easy on me, since I was just an accomplice to burglary, but I still had to go to arraignment. I’d heard of a couple other thieves asking for military recruitment instead of jail, from when I was in the system. And that’s what I did.”

She _did_ know of a couple of the former foster kids that had done this. Lily was one of them, but she still ended up serving a couple months for petty theft and did community service. Emma also had an ace up her sleeve: the man that had stopped her from being adopted. All she had to do was mention Staff Sergeant George King’s name, and the judge granted her permission to join the reserves and serve community service after her basic training was completed.

“You’ve had uh, quite the history Emma.”

“The judge told me that without King’s name and my already elevated status from the time in Ingrid’s care, he would’ve sent me to prison,” she finishes, glancing at the clock and realizing that what felt like seconds was already over an hour.

“We’ve already run out of time, unfortunately. Will you be back next week?”

She sits and evaluates how she’s feeling. They’ve just started to scratch the surface, but there’s so much in her twelve years in service that they haven’t even covered yet, including both deployments. And even though she’s told the story of how she ended up in the army before, there’s a significant weight taken off her shoulders, like this is the last time she ever has to tell that story if she chooses.

“Yes, I will be. Same time? David still has me on military leave for another two months, but maybe coming here every week will keep me occupied until it’s time for me to go back to work.”

“Excellent, see you next week then.” He rises when she does and shakes her hand, giving her his signature calming smile.

Walking out of the office and onto the chilly streets, November air nipping at her heels, Emma already feels like a better version of herself than what came home from Afghanistan.

-x-

Normally, Emma would already have everything back in order if she were returning from drill weekend. Her laundry would all be completed and put away, and she would feel justified lounging around her apartment doing whatever else she wanted to do. Instead, she’s waffling on unpacking all the duffel bags that Ruby had (very cleverly, honestly) hidden in her apartment. It’s not that she doesn’t want to get cleaned up and organized, because she normally loves her tidiness, but finding the motivation to do any of it when she’s still on leave from the station and now has access to her DVD collection and Netflix is really, _really_ difficult.

With Killian at work, she knows that now would be an ideal time to work on all this. But anything she needs to do would require getting up from her couch, and she just doesn’t think she can accomplish that right now.  Especially as the temperatures drop outside her apartment.

Killian swings by when he’s done at work, smelling like a multitude of things. She has no real desire to steal his coat but has no reason to push him away, so she happily accepts when he settles down next to her, pulling her feet into his lap after he sets a small bakery box on the coffee table in front of her.

“What’s that?” she asks, mostly unwilling to sit up from her comfortable position sunk into the couch.

“Welcome home gift from Belle,” he explains, his fingers wriggling beneath the blankets to find her ankle, and even that is buried under a layer of fuzzy socks and sweatpants. His fingers are warm when they finally make contact with her bare skin, and she sighs as his fingers glide around her ankle and up her calf. “Did you get much done today?”

She grumbles a little bit, unwilling to admit that she didn’t do anything at all, but he doesn’t push. He does lean forward to grab the box back up off the coffee table, opening it to show her the perfect cupcakes nestled inside with her swans on top.

“If you’d like, I’ll help with anything you ask of me. If you work for one hour, you can have one of these. We’ll save the other two for after the dinner I’m making you tomorrow.”

“What’re you making me tomorrow?”

“You’ll see. I have to make it here because I can’t use the electric stove for what I’m planning. But I think you’ll like it.”

She hums a little while she considers him, looking between his amused expression and the cupcakes being presented to her. Finally, Emma shrugs and slowly extracts herself from the blankets, immediately regretting her decision when she shivers hard enough to chatter her teeth. Killian is right there to pull her close, rubbing his hands up and down her arms outside the long sleeve thermal top she put on when she woke up.

“That cupcake better be worth it,” she tells him, kissing him once and enjoying the way his lips linger before they get to work.

The cupcake is more than worth it. And they end up working for longer than an hour, by the time they finish for the day. Killian dutifully carries each load of laundry to the laundry room just outside her door. He sets it down and waits as Emma unloads the dryer into a waiting empty basket, which Killian carries back to her bedroom while she takes care of starting up the next cycle on each machine.

Her cupboards are still mostly bare, but Killian takes over cleaning in there while she folds laundry, making sure the products that have been left behind haven’t expired yet. He offers to go grocery shopping with her later, but she waves him off and orders a pizza for a late dinner. They eat off paper plates in the living room while a movie plays, with Killian in his favorite recliner and Emma stretched on the couch. The apartment is slowly losing that stale feeling, but it still has a way to go.

To help along making it feel lived in, Emma lights candles and turns down the lamps in the living room when they’re done eating and all the loose ends have been taken care of for the night. She settles back in under a blanket while Killian selects another movie. His uniform is sitting folded on her dresser, clean and fresh for his late shift tomorrow, and he’s changed into a set of flannel bottoms he keeps at her place.

This is the easiness she missed most. Her friendship with Killian was always as comfortable as her favorite pair of jeans, and it only enhanced that when they started in on the path that would lead them to a relationship. So as he snags the remote off the table and shimmies under the blanket with her, she sighs in total contentment, happily accepting the warmth he has to offer.

When her eyes start drooping closed longer and longer, she finally relents and struggles up off the couch. She leans over to give him another kiss, mumbling about locking up and blowing out the candles when he comes to bed. It’s easy, then, to stumble into her bedroom and fall into bed, not even waking up whenever Killian does join her but comfortably waking up with her hand pressed to his lower back under his t-shirt in the morning.

Yet another transition clicks into place when she wakes up. They’ve gone from whatever they were at the start, to friends, and then to friends with benefits and an awkward gray area before they began a relationship. And all through that, they’ve been these two entities that co-exist in a beautiful harmony in two separate places. But now she’s thinking that maybe she doesn’t want two separate dwellings anymore.

-x-

“In basic training, I made a friend named Graham.”

This is going to be the hardest day of therapy that she’s had, yet. Archie has been incredibly helpful, listening intently to every word that has come out of her mouth not only about her time in the army, but also into the issues from her childhood that she buried deep beneath the surface. With just a week before Christmas, she needs to get this out of her brain and maybe, again, this will have to be the last time she ever has to tell the story of how Graham died in her arms after a routine PT test, and how devastated she was to lose the man that had quickly become inseparable from her.

Maybe this is the last time she’ll have to tell that story, and the story about meeting Walsh. She chokes her way through telling Archie about the pictures he took without her knowledge, and how he almost used them to bribe her. He had described their sexual encounters in detail to members of his detachment, which was thankfully not the same as hers. When it got back to her, and when she heard the rumor that there were apparently photographs to go with it, she threatened to sue him for sexual misconduct. Knowing that it would probably result in a dishonorable discharge, Walsh seemed to fade away out of the military, instead choosing to keep his head down as he finished out his contract.

The water she drinks after that story just manages to keep the bile from rising in her throat, but it’s a close thing.

“Is there anything else you wish to discuss regarding those memories?”

“No,” Emma answers quickly. “No, thank you.” The repetition is at least more human than the anguish that clawed its way out of her throat, so she’s proud of herself for that. “I do have something else I want to discuss, though, and I don’t know if this is something you’ve seen a lot or not.”

“Go right ahead then, and I’ll help any way I can.”

“I’ve noticed that when I’m alone, I can’t seem to get as comfortable as I used to be. I mean, at night. I spend a lot of nights with Killian, but when I’m home alone, I don’t settle.”

“You just got back from ten months where you were practically crawling over each other all hours of the day. It’s normal to feel lonely. Especially because I imagine people are still getting used to you being back, correct?"

“Yeah, sometimes they still forget that they can just call me or stop by or text me.”

“It’s a very lonely existence when you return, Emma. You’re used to having a roommate and coworkers and military friends who you can talk to about anything surrounding you at all times. It’s a huge adjustment for you, and for those who you’re coming back to. Although, it sounds like Killian’s had the easiest time adjusting to you being back.” He says this with a gentle smile, having only just gotten Emma to admit to their relationship the week before.

“He’s always been that way, though. No matter what army stuff I throw at him, he adjusts and acclimates and just does better than most people would ever even try.”

“That is typical of coming home to a loved one,” he reassures her, since her tone sounds like this is something out of the ordinary and she knows it. “I think you’ll find everyone else adjusting faster when you go back to work. This time seems loneliest while you’re doing nothing more than sitting at home, or waiting for the one person who remembers you’re back.”

“You’re probably right, but I feel like it’s more than that.” She struggles to find the words she’s grasping for, completely at a loss for how to describe what she’s feeling. She’s never had the urge to cohabitate with someone, but it’s becoming glaringly obvious that she’s no longer thriving living on her own. And with a year of an _actual_ relationship under their belt on top of the multiple years of friendship, Emma’s sure that part of what she’s longing for is the next step.

“I want to move in with Killian, but I don’t know if I’m rushing things along. We’ve been together for over a year, but for a large portion of that, I was out of the country. We’re just settling back into a system here, and finding our rhythm as a couple. And it still feels so new. Is suggesting we live together rushing thing too much?”

“That’s a question only you can answer, and only Killian can answer. I recommend talking to him about that, Emma. And really looking inside your own heart for what you feel is best.”

It’s snowing outside when she leaves Archie’s office, the fat flakes tumbling down at a leisurely pace as she walks the short distance to Granny’s diner. She’s had a standing appointment with her usual order after every appointment, the grilled cheese and onion rings being set on the counter right after she walks in now that Granny knows when her appointments end. They’re still the best onion rings she’s ever had, even though Killian _did_ make her duck fat fries, and she _also_ made orgasm noises as they ate them that night after their clean-a-thon.

There’s also hot chocolate waiting for her at her normal seat, and she sips at that while she thinks about what she just discussed with Archie. It’s not that she _needs_ to live with someone, she’s just finally coming to an understanding that the solitude she used to enjoy is far less pleasurable than being with Killian, or surrounded by her friends. She does think the good Dr. Hopper is correct that a lot of things will finally settle back to normal when she starts work, but she’s getting to the point where, when she goes to bed at night, she doesn’t want to do it alone, if it can be avoided.

At least she finally knows what she wants for Christmas. Now to just find the best way to bring it up to Killian.

-x-

“Where are you going?” She’s barely awake yet, as it’s Christmas morning and she had every intention of sleeping in as long as possible beneath the comforter she got Killian and gave him the night before. But he must have something else in mind, because he’s climbing out from beneath the covers, exposing her to the frigid morning air before he tucks the heavy blankets back around her shoulders.

“I’m going to make you Christmas brunch, love,” he tells her, shuffling around to her side of the bed to kiss her forehead. She wants to reach for him, but that would mean willingly extracting herself from beneath the covers, and that’s just not going to happen. So she lets him go as she burrows deeper, content to close her eyes as the comforting sounds of Killian in his kitchen filter in through the cracked doorway.

“There are few things as heartwarming as seeing you shift to the very center of our bed, Swan,” Killian murmurs next to her ear. Her eyes spring open, because she swears he was just in the kitchen, but a quick glance at his clock shows that she was out for almost an hour before he returned.

“You’re one to talk,” she mumbles into the fabric still pulled up close to her face to keep her warm. “If you’ll recall, you have the same bad habit of traveling in your sleep.”

He shifts onto the bed so he’s kneeling over her, bracing himself with a hand on either side of her body as he bends low to nose along her neck to the spot behind her ear. She shivers beneath him, and it has nothing to do with the cold for once. She shifts around to accommodate him, his body pressed between her thighs and pulling her further awake even with all the blankets between them.

They spend way longer than she thought they would doing nothing more than leisurely kissing, Killian’s tongue sweeping through her mouth to give her hints of the coffee he already consumed while he was preparing brunch. While his body is warm, her hands are chilled where they clutch the back of his sweater. Despite the holiday, and the very enjoyable activities they’re currently partaking in (especially with Killian slowly attempting to coax her out from under the covers to access the hem of her shirt), she grumbles as she breaks the moment.

“When we buy a house, we are going to make sure we have a better heating system than the one this place has. Isn’t the thermostat set at sub-tropical temperatures?”

“Close to it, I believe. It’s the bloody forced air heating. If it wasn’t for the – wait a moment. Did you just say ‘ _when_ ’ we buy a house? Are we buying a house now, Swan?”

“Yeah, we are. I would hate moving in this weather, but I’m sure we can get everyone to help out if we offer hot alcoholic beverages and damn good food when it’s all done.” She starts to list off the friends they could get to help, knowing that the restaurant is still closed on Mondays for the time being, and Robin is still on light duty as the winter means less people touring the surrounding forests in Storybrooke. She’s on a roll making plans when Killian places a finger over her lips, his expression wide-eyed and lovingly surprised, if she had to describe it.

“Emma. Are you serious? Would you like to look for a place for us to live?”

She can’t help the look that crosses over her features, her lips twisting up into a wide smile as her eyes crinkle at the corners, and yeah, she’s been thinking of this for weeks now but Killian’s expression further cements her determination that this is what she wants.

“I mean, yeah. If you want to, that is.”

He doesn’t answer, just kisses her smile with his own as they sink into giddiness.

“Merry Christmas,” Emma tells him as she finally shoves off all the covers in order to drag him back under after they’ve stripped each other bare. They only leave the bed once the oven timer beeps to let them know their brunch is ready. Killian makes sure to leave an extra sweater at the foot of the bed for her as he scrambles into his clothes and out of the room to set the table.

By the time she wanders out, her stomach is growling from the cacophony of aromas drawing her to the kitchen table. He’s outdone himself for the two of them, and a happy sigh escapes her as she spots the signature mug of hot chocolate sitting next to her usual seat. There’s a plate with steam still rising from the ham, egg, and cheese breakfast cups he made, and from the individual bowls of cinnamon roll oatmeal sitting by their plates. He’s laid out bagels and croissants, and homemade hash brown casserole rounds out the table.

Instead of sitting in her seat right away, she waits until Killian is seated and leans over to kiss him, quick but hard, by way of thanks for the food on the table.

It’s only once she’s settled into her own chair that she looks up and sees the smile on his face, his fork hovering over his food as he looks at her with love and adoration and a thousand other emotions right there in his eyes for her to see.

“Stop that,” she says, fighting down a smile of her own and blushing to the roots of her hair.

“Stop what?”

“That face. That expression on your face. Stop that.”

He sets his fork down with purpose, propping both his hands under his chin and turning up the smarm and charm in his expression. “Is this better?”

She laughs before shoving a forkful of hash browns into her mouth, chewing slowly and swallowing before she gives him a pointed look. “You’re weird, and lucky that I love you.”

“I’m well aware of that, love. No clue how you got past the strangeness to fall madly in love with me, but I’m quite glad you did.” He winks when he’s finished speaking before starting back in on his own plate of food.

“It’s mostly because of the chef thing. Let’s be honest.”

He chuckles at that, taking the next moment to cheers his mug of coffee against hers of hot chocolate with a wide smile on his face.

Later, when all the presents have been opened and the lights are off save for the tree in the corner of his living room, Killian’s hand is stroking down her neck in a move reminiscent of that first time they slept together and he was doing his best to ease the tension out of her. It worked then, and it’s working now, as she buries her face against the soft sweater he’s been wearing for most of the day.

“Next year,” he murmurs against her forehead where he half-dozes in the quiet of evening, “we’ll be sitting in front of a tree in our very own living room.”

The realization sends a pang of warmth through her, and Emma knows without a doubt that this path, something she once gave up hope of ever having for herself after the rockiness of her past, is the exact one she’s meant to be on with this exact person she’s with.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same as last chapter, warning for character death mentioned in backstory. xoxo

Shortly after the renovations are completed on the banquet hall in February and Zelena’s work is done, Killian shows up at Emma’s apartment with a smile plastered across his face and his joy unrestrained. Regina gave him word that her sister had gone back to Kansas, and she took Hades with her.

“It turns out they fell in love at some point, although Regina had no idea they were even seeing each other. Turns out they eloped, and we are now officially free of Hades’ wrath. He forfeited his financier position when he left,” he tells her, pulling her up from where she’s packing away the few books she’s explained in the past that she refuses to part with. He lifts her, spinning carefully in the circle of floor that isn’t in turmoil from her packing. His joy is infectious, as if they weren’t already overjoyed at their prospective move, and soon she’s grinning just as wide as he is.

“No more quarterly meetings?” she asks breathlessly when he puts her down.

“Nope. Now I’ll be working solo with Regina over the tasting menus, in a less formal setting and with a lot less self-hatred to follow.”

“Oh god, Killian. I’m so happy to hear it,” she tells him, hugging him tight once more.

In many senses, their lives are a mess at the moment. Killian’s second bedroom has officially turned into moving central, where he’s been working on boxing up his own belongings in preparation for their move. The house they found won’t be ready to be lived in for another month, so they’re taking their time. Both of their landlords have gotten notice, but since Storybrooke’s real estate isn’t exactly a booming business, neither property is breathing down their necks to get out immediately.

Since Emma has been primarily living with Killian since she came home from deployment, a lot of her stuff is already packed up. She’s always lived a little on the light side, so most of her belongings are already packed away and waiting to be moved, at this point. These are the last few shelves she has to box up at her place. With new lightness surrounding him, he helps her finish off the last of her packing. Once the last box is taped and labeled, he recreates that first time on her living room floor, minus the malfunctioning air conditioner and plus a whole lot more love.

Somewhere, between her unabridged passion and his elation at his latest news, he decides he wants to marry Emma Swan.

-x-

Proposing to Emma is not nearly as easy as falling in love with her was. It seems that around every corner, he finds a new obstacle to get around, and it’s one never ending nightmare after another. He starts looking for hidden cameras after a while, because he can’t figure out why else he would have this many problems asking the woman he loves to marry him.

The first problem to arise is that of the ring to buy. With Emma’s simplistic taste in jewelry, he knows not to get her something flashy and gaudy, but he has no idea what else to look for. Gold or white gold? Square or princess cut diamond? How many carats? Should it be one diamond, or should he also get other gems flanking the center of attention? So many questions and directions, and he hasn’t the faintest idea of where to begin.

It takes him a week to hunt down the perfect moment with Mary Margaret, luring her to the club under the pretense of baby shower planning. Shortly after the changing of the years, she and David announced that they were expecting, and asked Killian if they could schedule a shower to take place at the banquet hall since it was still excluded from the club’s website for events. The glowing woman immediately suspects something when she comes down the stairs to the kitchen and there’s not a tasting sample in sight, just two mugs of tea set on the bench waiting for a chat.

“As you may have guessed, love, this has nothing to do with the shower.”

An expression, one he can only describe as ‘motherly,’ passes over Mary Margaret’s delicate features as her eyes flash with suspicion of his motives.

“I don’t know if you know this, but I am very much in love with a woman, and would like to ask her to spend the rest of our lives together.” He pauses again, assessing the status of her expression, and he watches a myriad of emotions pass over her face before she suddenly marches forward and hugs Killian tight. It takes him another second to realize that she’s crying into his chef’s coat, her sniffles just as petite as she is.

“Pregnancy hormones, just give me a moment to cry it out,” she mumbles into the fabric. When she seems to collect herself, she pulls away and reaches up to frame Killian’s face in her hands. “I am so happy for you, Killian. Now, what can I help with?”

He’s not the least bit surprised when David calls him an hour after Mary Margaret leaves the club, his protective dad voice in place, as he lectures Killian about how precious and wonderful Emma is, and subtle threats laced between every sentence that he will cause bodily harm to Killian if he even thinks of hurting Emma.

His first attempt at proposal is an utter disaster. With the ring in hand and a tidy amount of his savings gone away, he plans on hiding it in a chocolate flower dessert one night, but with the flower constructed and hidden away in the refrigerator for later than evening, Emma tells him how Walsh proposed to her using an ice cream sundae, a fact she had never shared with him prior. Thankfully, she’s not suspect when he brings the dish out already bloomed, with an extra raspberry on top of the truffle in the middle to hide the dent where the ring was hiding.

The second time he plans on asking, he can’t find the ring. It’s the week of their move out of the apartments they previously inhabited and into the house that’s finally livable and passed all inspections. He plans on asking her in their new house, but the half of stuff that they moved that day did _not_ include the ring, apparently. At least, that’s what he concludes after an hour-long search through each and every item he brought along, all while hiding his true intentions for wanting to unpack his kitchen gear alone.

Two days later, as he and David are moving Killian’s couch in, the ring box drops from somewhere inside the bloody couch. They both turn, checking to see that Emma is nowhere nearby as they try to figure out how to prop the couch so he can retrieve the box. It’s a juggling act, but Killian just manages to lightly kick it towards Dave, who scoops it up while the couch is propped on his knees, before Emma pops up the steps of the porch.

“Is my couch already in the basement?”

“Aye, love. Just this one and the last couple boxes left, now,” he tells her as they shimmy through the door frame. After placing the couch on the floor, centered over the area rug Emma had already unrolled, David shoves the ring under the cushion closest to him, giving Killian a thumbs up when it’s hidden away.

The ring stays there for the rest of the day, because with all the unpacking and shifting they’re doing, he knows at least in that spot he won’t lose it again.

-x-

Once, when Killian was a young lad, his mother took him and Liam to a carnival where a woman with a crystal ball told him that he would meet his True Love at an inopportune time, when the sun was hidden by the clouds and the weather was indecisive between winter and spring. She told him that their first interaction would not be a pleasant one, but that their next meeting would solidify their love for the rest of his life.

His mother passed away the following summer, and thus began the seemingly-endless strings of heartache in his life.

When he met Milah in April of his final year of school, the sun was hidden behind the clouds of an impending storm, and he had just dropped his entire satchel of books in the slush that was still melting from the walkway. She had sidestepped his mess, offering some word of sarcasm about his ‘smooth sailing’ and grace, before sashaying into the school with a smirk carelessly thrown over her shoulder. He grumbled to himself as he collected his soggy materials and made it to class ten minutes late.

The next time he saw her, _really_ saw her, he fell in love with her. She was gliding down the hallway in that way she always did, her hair curling around and around in its spirals as it fell around her shoulders, and there wasn’t sass on her tongue, but kindness this time.

“I’m sorry for the other morning,” she told him, sincerity in her eyes. “It was one of those rotten days where I was just so relieved to see someone having a day worse than mine that I let it get the best of me.”

“S’all right, love. We all get one of those, aye?”

She smiled in response, and he was gone for her.

And just three short years later, she was gone from him all together. He spent far too long afterwards wondering if he could’ve done anything different, if he could’ve noticed the warning signs of her impending decision. But one day there was a letter left for him on the kitchen counter, where Liam told him Milah placed it earlier while he was at his last university class of the day. He got the call that night that she’d been found at her favorite place in the woods nearby.

To Killian, she’d been his soulmate, the one that the fortune teller accurately predicted would come into his life. When she was gone, he couldn’t find solace in the country he called his home, not when everything and everywhere reminded him of her. He was accepted into culinary school two months later, and he took it as a sign to start fresh overseas. With a hearty hug from Liam, he left for school and only returned on the rare occasion that time and money allowed him a holiday to travel.

For the most part, all through culinary school and after he moved to Storybrooke, Killian swore off dating. He saw no point, when the woman he figured was the one he should’ve spent forever with was already gone. He made one exception, which ended up being a massive error of judgement. He _told_ Tink he didn’t do relationships, and she was great about it at the start. They were just having fun. And she was lovely, really, but when he didn’t want to do the couple adventures and activities, she would get upset with him and it would cause a spat.

They parted on almost amicable terms after that, going back to their usual working relationship with nothing on the side. But when Killian went home with a tourist later that month, it must’ve upset the delicate balance he didn’t realize he and Tink were standing on. His truck, left in the country club’s parking lot overnight, had fine lines scratched all down each side, and the hood proudly proclaimed him to be _‘Chef Douchebag’_ which his entire kitchen staff would see, and then happily pick up after Tink high-tailed it out of there.

When he picked up that she had moved to southern California, he sent along a letter apologizing for his actions and telling Tink that she was completely justified in her actions. It took him a long time to realize that his quickness to move on looked callous, like he had never really cared for her in the first place, even if it wasn’t his intention. He got a Christmas card with a picture of the beach that year, just a short message inside wishing Killian luck in his life as she found love and happiness in her own adventures.

He gave up dating after that, even going so far as to swear off his kitchen staff from dating each other for fear of another episode like his popping up. It took him months to break them of the nickname Tink had bestowed upon him. After that, his only form of intimacy was the casual kind, and it worked out well for him.

In March that year, with the sun hidden by the impending storms rolling in at the end of winter, Killian had the misfortune of interviewing a young, inexperienced chef, and the day was a disaster. That included the meeting of a certain blonde, and a deal made over toilet paper. When he next saw her running through the park, and especially as she jogged away with her parting shot, he felt a flare of attraction so strong that it took a great deal of self-control to not jog after her and find out more immediately.

Instead, he bided his time, learning snippets from David. That just meant he was around when David discovered that his father, the man who did no more than provide the other half of his chromosomes before ditching his darling mother, was the same man that would’ve been Emma’s adoptive father. It was strange to find a world so small when all these people living different lives ended up in the same place. He remembers the moment he thought again of that fortune teller and her crystal ball, as she told Killian of the sunshine that would walk into his life after that day, with sea green guiding him down the correct path of his life.

That Storybrooke had its fair share of sunny days was coincidence, and he always figured the water along the coast was the green she meant, until he met Emma. Her eyes, the same green as the glass he sometimes found worn down by the ocean, was slowly beginning to fulfill a silly prophecy he had abandoned as false hope.

There are piles of boxes surrounding them in their new living room, and Killian knows if he looks through the telescope they’ve placed in the eating area that he’ll be able to just glimpse the sea crashing against the shore in the pale moonlight. They’re both worn down, but still too wound up to go to bed yet. The television plays on in the background, although the sound is low and he highly doubts either of them are even paying attention.

He glances at the clock above the television, a housewarming gift from Mary Margaret and David, and watches at it ticks over to midnight. “Happy Friendaversary, Swan.” It’s a silly thing, but he’s always delighted in the passing of another year that they’ve known each other.

“You actually keep track of the day we met?”

“Does that surprise you? It’s March 21. How could I ever forget the day I had to embarrass myself in front of a beautiful woman in order to get toilet paper?”

“You’re such a nerd,” she sighs out. She shifts restlessly for a moment before she speaks again. “Do you think we could’ve done it? Banged one out. Moved on and been bffs forever?”

A smile spreads across his features, slow and steady. “Here’s the thing, Swan. I could already tell when I met you that second time that I would want more, but I was still a little burnt from Tink’s exit and I could tell you had skeletons in your closet that you needed to get over. I think if we would’ve slept together when we met, we wouldn’t be where we are now.”

“How do you know?”

She lifts her head to look at him, so he gets to see her corresponding scoffing smile to the words he says next. “I know how you kiss. I’d have gone after you. I probably would’ve scared you off with an abundance of affection. But being your friend meant more to me, so I couldn’t allow myself to just fuck and run with you.”

She contemplates his words for a moment, and he can see her working it out in her head. She knows he’s right about how they would’ve handled it all.

“So when it came up again?” she asks, settling her head back on his shoulder.

“When it came up again, I kind of felt like we were lying to ourselves and to each other about our overall intentions at first, but I think it worked out pretty well. I think the biggest difference was the attraction we already felt. Had we been a guy and a girl with no attractions to each other, which _is_ a legitimate thing if you consider my friendship with Belle and yours with David, we would’ve never found ourselves in this situation to begin with.”

He pauses, smiling against her hair as he imagines the way her eyes sparkled at their second meeting, the sun highlighting the color of both eyes and hair as her dimples appeared.

“But you, Emma, you put stars in my eyes that day in the park. I was a goner for you even then, even if we never progressed past friends.”

These are all things he’s told her in one way or another, or hinted to in previous conversations, but it doesn’t render her any less speechless to hear it all at once. He can tell in the way her breathing comes quicker and her body feels like a loaded spring in his arms. As soon as she recovers, she shifts out of his loose hold to hover above him and kiss him.

“Marry me?”

He thinks at first that he’s misheard her, that the words she mumbles against his lips cannot be the ones he imagines he heard. But she pulls back and repeats herself, smirking at how his brows are furrowed in confusion.

“Killian, will you marry me?”

Thinking of the ring stored nearby, the one that has been through almost as much as they have at this point, Killian throws his head back and laughs. It’s completely offset to the mood in the room but he can’t help it. Two failed attempts to ask this wonderful, stubborn, beautiful woman to marry him and _she_ beats him to the punch, _again_.

“It just wouldn’t be us if you didn’t throw me off balance.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Of course I’ll marry you, love. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Well, I – “

She goes quiet as he pulls the box from beneath the cushion they’re propped on, her eyes going wide as he opens it to reveal the exact ring she described to Mary Margaret once when they were dreaming up futures, one that Emma never thought she would get.

“Wow,” she finally says, taking the gleaming ring from the box. Killian takes it from her grasp to slide it on her finger, marveling at the perfect fit and the way it looks on her hand.

“Wow,” they both say, staring down at the ring as it manages to catch in the light from the television and the low-lit lamp on the end table closest to them.

“I’ve always wondered what word I would use to describe all of this, Swan, and I think I’ve finally found it.”

“And what’s that?”

He smiles, bending forward to kiss her again, so she can taste the word on the tip of his tongue instead of having to speak it out loud.


	14. Epilogue

“It looks like I shoved a balloon under my dress,” Mary Margaret grumbles as she props her feet on the chair across from her. Her baby shower is due to start in an hour, and the guest of honor has been ordered to rest while Emma and Ruby put the final touches on the decorations and centerpieces.

Killian is somewhere in the banquet hall’s kitchen with Will and Belle, along with four new members of the catering staff. Not only is this the flagship event, it’s also a dress rehearsal for the kitchen and wait staffs that have been employed at the hall. Some of them, such as Killian and his other leads, will work both locations when duty calls. A couple of the other staff members from both teams have also signed up for double duty, but the rest are all new hires. The latest wave of tourism has brought along vacationing college students looking to make a few bucks while they crash in a beach town for the summer. Others, like the ones wearing new chef’s coats, are recruits from the latest class of Killian’s alma mater. This shower will be just the smallest taste of what they can expect to follow with the larger weddings they will eventually cater in the hall.

Other than the sighs of Mary Margaret’s exasperation over the size of her belly, or the swelling of her feet and ankles ( _“They’re hankles, guys. They’re what you get when you cross hams with my ankles. Hankles.”_ ) the hall is silent for the moment. David is on his way back with Mary Margaret’s slippers, as it only took five minutes for her to realize that she did _not_ want to be wearing the sandals whose straps were already cutting into her feet.

Fiddling with a floral arrangement, Emma tugs up the top of her strapless sundress for what feels like the millionth time since she left the house. “I swear this damn thing stayed up when I tried it on. I need to stop letting Killian taste-test the experimental menus at home,” she says, but doesn’t miss the look that Ruby and Mary Margaret exchange behind her back. “Don’t –“

“Pregnant,” Ruby blurts out before Emma can even finish the thought.

“Ruby!” Emma scolds, shooting a look at Mary Margaret while she’s at it. “I’m not.”

She might be, but she’s not willing to share that yet. A week ago, when she was standing in front of the full-length mirror after her shower, she noticed slight differences in her body. She had to _squint_ to see them, because it was mostly changes in her breasts and extra bloating, but they were there. It was almost as if she could already feel the differences. She googled a bunch of the early signs during her shift at the station later, wondering if it might just be the constant influx of food in their house that was contributing to her curves going a little curvier.

But she’d counted, checked her period tracking app, checked the fertility section and weighed it against that night that she and Killian got a little sloppy with the condom usage and she let him come inside of her. They weren’t actively trying, but they weren’t exactly keeping track of contraceptives anymore, either. They haven’t even set a date, instead letting this all be one lazy glide to the alter.

As far as their interest in having children, they had yet to really discuss wanting one of their own. After Regina and Robin started fostering a teenage boy named Henry, they considered doing the same once they had some time to settle into married life. Especially given Emma’s past, she wants to give one (or more; they’ve gotten wild enough to say four during previous discussions) child a chance that she was never given. She knows that there are kids out there of all ages wanting nothing more than a stable home, and she wants to be able to give that to them, eventually.

But a baby of her own?

She realizes she’s just standing in front of the gift table, her hand protectively hovering over the space that would grow over time, and she snaps out of it. Ruby and Mary Margaret have moved on to their expectations for the day, so they don’t seem to have noticed her lapse of activity.

As soon as the shower is under way, Emma starts noticing more and more of the early signifiers, and that Ruby and her own internal monologue are probably correct. The salmon that they’ve chosen for half the guests, which Mary Margaret immediately waves to the other side of the room, smells repulsive to her. She thinks back to that time that Killian made scallops in his apartment, and how she was convinced nothing could ever smell worse. Well, she was wrong. The salmon is definitely worse.

The evidence starts stockpiling after that, like when cravings hit out of nowhere. She took down a steak with barely a pause the one night at dinner, and Killian’s slow grin through the short course of the meal was enough to send them to the bedroom without cleaning up the dirty dishes.

Conversely, she also spends almost three full days in front of the toilet. She always does her best to wait until after Killian goes to work at the country club, or to the banquet hall, and tries to hide her reactions to whatever smell is clinging to his coat after any given shift.

One day, she’s in the bathroom before he’s even awake, and brushes it off as a stomach bug when he wakes up, concerned even though he’s half-asleep. When he gets home from a wedding that primarily had fish and vegetarian options, however, it’s harder to disguise the moment she catches a whiff of the scent and goes running for the bathroom.

“Swan, are you sure you’re okay? You just went positively green.” He’s lingering near the doorway, his chef’s coat already discarded into the dirty laundry basket. She doesn’t answer right away, instead choosing to brush her teeth and thoroughly swish with mouthwash, during which time Killian comes to stand behind her.

Between the weird behavior and her silence, he probably means to comfort her, but as soon as he’s gently standing at her back, she feels a rush of pleasure and want all the way down to her toes.

“I’m fine,” she finally murmurs, meeting his eyes in the mirror over the sink, just as she reaches back and pulls him flush against her. She finds his hands next, linking her fingers with his left as she moves both of their right hands down between her thighs. While he looks stunned, he certainly doesn’t look unhappy about the sudden change of events, and easily goes with the flow.

It’s as simple as tilting her head to one side to lure him into kissing her neck, and then she’s pushing back against him with rhythm and fervor, feeling him harden as she moves.

“I don’t know if this is a pre-period thing or what, but far be it from me to dissuade this current course, love,” he says, somewhere along her hairline just behind her ear, and his fingers move of their own accord to slip beneath the waistband of her pants and down to where she needs his touch. His other hand unlinks from hers and slides up her ribs, but as soon as he touches her breast, she hisses and jolts away. “Emma, are you hurt? Are you all right?”

He spins her to face him, searching her eyes intently to make sure he hasn’t injured her in some way (but even in their roughest bedroom days, he never would) or he’s not aggravated some previous wound. He looks so distressed that she needs to reassure him, even if she’s not even one hundred percent sure yet.

“You remember that time we were talking about possibly fostering children?” she asks, half hoping to lead him slowly, and the other half hoping that’s enough and he’ll get it on his own. She’s just hit a point where the last period is considered missed, and hasn’t taken a test yet. She doesn’t want to jinx it.

“Sure, love. You said you wanted to wait until we were married a bit before plunging down that rabbit hole, if I remember properly. What does that have to do… with…” He trails off slowly, raising an eyebrow and staring for a second. “Emma, when was your last monthly time?”

“I’m just now three weeks late,” she whispers, trying to keep emotion out of her voice until she can gauge his reaction to this news.

“Are you?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t taken a test. But I think I might be?”

He takes the information in stride, considering it for a moment before a smile spreads slow and wide across his lips. “And if we wanted to celebrate such news, without technically celebrating it just in case, what areas should I avoid in order to not harm you?”

“Just go easy up here,” Emma tells him, making circles in front of her chest and laughing in delight when he swoops in to kiss her again.

They both agree, the next day after the test turns up positive and they celebrate once more, that pregnancy sex might be their new favorite kind, which works out quite nicely for them.

-x-

It’s later, while she’s waiting for her own baby shower to begin that Mary Margaret pipes up. Emma is replicating Mary Margaret’s position from back in June, except she has Leo balancing on her thighs as she distracts the seven month old while his mother fusses with the decorations.

“Are we allowed to ask about it yet?”

“Ask about what?” Emma replies off-hand, instead going back to puffing up her cheeks to make funny faces at Leo.

“You and Killian,” Mary Margaret clarifies, and she and Ruby both turn to stare at her. She looks at both of them, puzzled expression on her face, because she’s definitely eight months pregnant and her engagement ring is about to get looped onto a necklace in the next week if she swells anymore.

“What about us?”

“The most we ever got was you guys admitting you were together at the dining out, and then you spent most of the Nolan wedding reception making eyes at each other. I think it’s time for details,” Ruby says with a pointed look. “How did this all happen?”

“Well,” Emma says, catching on to the meaning behind the question, but wanting to savor this very last moment of the secret, “when a man and a woman – “

“Emma!”

She laughs, even more so when Leo giggles and presses his tiny hands to Emma’s stomach just as the baby gives a languid kick. “Okay, fine.” She motions Mary Margaret to take her now-squirming son back so she can sit back, and her hands reflexively go to cradle her belly, the swell that is one-half Killian and one-half Emma, and so in her mind is the very definition of perfection and happiness and future and love. “So you know how sometimes you’re trying to think of a word, and you kinda have to stumble around and figure out what it is you’re trying to express? That was how things started between Killian and I.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happily Ever After, suckaaaaaas! Two side stories to follow, but this is the official end.


End file.
